


Atonement

by Laora



Series: Penance [2]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Unreliable Narrator, it ended up as a less than happy alternate ending, this started out as a happy ending for Penance and then uhhhhhh, whoops?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2020-12-16 12:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21036413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laora/pseuds/Laora
Summary: An alternate ending for Penance, told in snapshots of a weary, fraying life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Would recommend you read Penance beforehand! But if you really don't want to, the gist is that Ed and Al have been in England for the last 8ish months, and now they and Sirius are at the Gate...and no one's getting out without paying the price.

"But what could get all of us out alive?"

Sirius doesn't think he's been so terrified in  _ years _ . This huge blank landscape, the sadistic grin on the creature— _ Truth _ —before him... He's faced down Lord Voldemort himself, spent twelve years in the Hell that is Azkaban prison...

But the only thing that compares to this is the moment when he realized that James and Lily were gone.

He's doing his best to keep up a calm facade, to not do anything stupid, because that's what Al said to do and he obviously knows more about this than he ever will...but he cannot see this ending well. Ed's voice from across the great whiteness is becoming increasingly desperate, offering everything—offering his  _ life— _ just to get Sirius and Al out of here alive...

(That's not going to be enough for two people, and they all know it, but Sirius doesn't know what else to do.)

Truth is talking to him, but he can barely hear; Ed's voice is blocking out everything—yelling, screaming,  _ pleading _ with this "God" to spare the others. Sirius wants to tell him to stop, because clearly this isn't the answer; if they just ask what it wants—

But then Ed falls silent for a moment. Sirius strains his ears, terrified that something has happened to them, that they've delayed too long...but then he speaks again, and instead of desperation, there is a note of hope in his voice. "Magic bypasses equivalency—can you—just—take the magic out of Sirius? That's equivalent, right?  _ Right?" _

The Truth's grin, in front of Sirius, grows wider; the blank universe around them seems to pulse in reply. "That's not the answer I was looking for...but it will do, Mister Alchemist. So long as the wizard agrees."

"Yes," Sirius says immediately, barely thinking. Losing his magic—becoming a Muggle—that is so much better than any of them dying. After all, if he has been permanently separated from the magical world, what is the point in practicing it? "Take it—that'll send us all to Amestris in one piece, right?"

Truth does not reply; its grin only grows wider, the pulsing grows stronger, and the great stone doors before them open. The arms are reaching for Sirius, but instead of picking him up as Edward's boggart did, they only dig deep into his body.

The attack is sudden and unexpected; he only realizes that he is screaming after several seconds of undiluted agony. It feels as if he is being turned inside-out, as if someone is trying to extract his innards through a single pore of his skin—

The Elrics may be screaming as well; he cannot hear. All he knows is that, suddenly, the pain is gone, and blackness is all that remains.

.

.

.

.

The next thing he knows, he is lying on a patch of grass, staring up at a cloudless sky.

"Sirius?  _ Sirius!  _ Are you all right? You were screaming but you were in a different dimension of the Gate and we didn't know what was going on and—"

Al's terrified voice greets him as he turns his head, and the boy helps him sit up. (There is an alarming amount of blood covering him; deep gashes cut across his cheeks and arms...but he is disregarding them, and even if Sirius is worried, Alphonse will not give him time to ask.) "Do you feel all right? It was just supposed to take your magic, but—"

"I'm—I'm fine..." And he is, he thinks. He realizes suddenly that he feels a sort of emptiness within him, as if there is a hole that wasn't there before...but the strangeness is not painful. It is only an absence of something he's had all his life, and that is not indispensable.

_ They are alive, and that's what matters. _

Edward is sitting up a few feet away, staring at his right hand in something akin to awe. It is bony— _ hopelessly _ bony and emaciated—but the fact that it is made of flesh and blood rather than battered steel...

"You're the  _ best," _ Ed says, his face splitting into a wide, rare grin as he looks up toward Sirius, waving his hand around to emphasize. He opens his mouth again, as if to say more, but it seems that words have failed him; he only continues to smile, looking utterly elated as he starts to look around. Sirius doesn't recognize any part of the landscape—there is a huge building several hundred yards in front of them and several smaller ones on either side—but both Elrics' face are lighting up in something he can only read as joy.

(Sirius doesn't know where they are, but the Truth promised they'd be in Amestris...is this what it looks like? He's always thought alternate universes would be something truly bizarre, with orange skies and purple trees...but the Elrics look human— _ are _ human—just like him...he supposes it makes sense that their worlds look the same.)

"Brother..." Al's eyes are growing impossibly wider as he takes in the people bustling around outside the buildings...and Sirius realizes, suddenly, exactly how important this is, that there are people here at all. That monster of a Homunculus—the one, unimaginably, who was even more terrifying than  _ Pride _ —had been upon the brink of victory, might have possibly won the war...turned this country into a Philosopher's Stone. But there are people here; there are  _ lives _ happening all around them...and even if he does not know anything about this strange place, Sirius feels a surge of blinding, irrational relief, because this means that  _ they have truly won... _

_ These boys can finally be happy. _

"Oi!"

A voice he does not recognize snaps him from his trance abruptly; he jumps to his feet and spins around, instinctively reaching for his wand before realizing that it will be useless. (He may not mind giving up his magic to save their lives, but he feels naked without it in the face of this unknown threat.) He can see a man running toward them; he is perhaps in his mid-twenties, wearing a deep blue uniform... _ military. _

The man continues to talk, but the language he is speaking is utterly foreign. He is looking at Sirius as he speaks—likely because he is the oldest of their little group—but he can't even begin to figure out how to reply—

_ Amestrian. He's speaking Amestrian. _

He can't help the wide grin that splits his face at this realization. He is by no means fluent, but he remembers enough to recognize the cadence. The number of times the Elrics lapsed into their native language, back in the summer...and more recently, when they were up to their eyes in research...

This young man is undoubtedly speaking Amestrian, which leaves him with no choice but to come to the obvious conclusion that  _ we've made it back. _

Ed strides forward—heavily favoring his left leg ( _ Truth must have given that back as well) _ —grinning from ear to ear and speaking with the man. He does not look convinced, is frowning deeply as Ed continues to talk, and the boy sighs resignedly before rummaging in his pocket. After a moment, he produces something on a long, silver chain.

_ A pocket watch. _ What the hell is a kid doing with something old-fashioned like that?

Ed's never pulled it out, at least in Sirius' presence; he's never checked the time, never shown it off as part of his home world...and he has no idea what the implications of such a thing are. But the man seems taken aback by it; he stares hard at the boy before shifting his gaze to Al and Sirius. He's just wondering whether the guy is going to draw one of those—Muggle wands? He can't remember the name—to try and kill them...but then Ed says something else—rather forcefully—and the man sighs and nods, gesturing for them to follow him.

"Uh...what just happened?" he asks Al in an undertone as they walk toward the main building. (He's supporting the boy as he continues to bleed freely; Al insists that he's fine, but he's decidedly wobbly on his feet, and Sirius isn't willing to take any chances.) "Where are we going?"

"Oh! Right," Al says, grinning rather sheepishly up at him. "This is—Central Command, where Brother worked before we wound up in England? Civilians aren't supposed to be here, and he's not convinced by Brother's watch...but he still managed to pull rank, so the sergeant's escorting us to Mustang's office to make sure we're not fakes or anything." He almost shrugs, but then freezes as he seems to realize something. "But the colonel was...that means he's not...?"

He trails off, glancing toward his brother (he didn't hear them) before allowing an even wider smile to grow on his face. Sirius really only understands about half of the things Al implies with this statement, has no idea why the idea of Mustang is making him so happy, but he shrugs it off for the moment and simply continues walking. There is a time for questions and explanations, but now is not it...not when they've found themselves back in Amestris, exactly where the Elrics belong.

They weave through crowds of people wearing that same blue uniform—some are barking orders to subordinates; some are harried-looking secretaries answering things Remus once called  _ telephones _ ; only a few have time to spare a glance for the motley group making their way through their midst...and fewer still seem to recognize them.

(Sirius supposes that's a good thing—they won't get slowed down... But it strikes him as odd that people don't seem to recognize Al, that they only spare a passing glance—albeit a confused one—for Edward, in his bright red coat and blond ponytail.)

They make their way up several flights of stairs—Al insists that he's fine, but Ed keeps glancing back nervously and Sirius is supporting more and more of his weight—before the man stops before a large wooden door. He knocks crisply and yells something through it; a voice, deep and authoritative, calls something back, and the man opens the door.

He's blocking the entryway, speaking to whoever is inside, but that same male voice says something else—it sounds almost dismissive—and the sergeant sighs and steps out of the way, allowing them inside. There are about half a dozen people assembled there; a man a few years younger than Sirius, with dark hair and striking black eyes, stands in the center of the room, clearly sizing up the three of them.

But his eyes gloss over Sirius and Al and focus quickly on Ed; they widen marginally, and his mouth drops open a bit as he realizes who he's looking at. (Sirius supposes, if they've been gone for seven months...but why is he paying no attention to Al?) Nobody says anything, though; the other people at the desks are similarly silent, as if they're waiting for something to happen, waiting for the other shoe to drop...

But then Ed says something in a decidedly triumphant voice, a huge smirk plastered on his face, and all Hell breaks loose.

Everyone is on their feet before Sirius can even blink; their jaws drop and they take huge, bounding steps forward as if they can't get there fast enough. (It would be almost comical, if Sirius didn't know the gravity of such a reunion.) The dark-haired man is suddenly standing before Ed, staring straight into his eyes as if waiting for him to disappear...but Ed is just as solid as the rest of them, and after a moment, he only claps a hand on the boy's shoulder and smiles broadly.

Al laughs under his breath, and Ed grins, saying something in that same snarky tone that Sirius has not heard in months. (The stress of war, of protecting fifty million innocents from Pride, left no time for such frivolity. But now...) The others are crowded around Ed as well, and even if Sirius has no idea what they're saying, has no idea who they are...he can't help but feel an elation he hasn't felt in years...since he got Remus and Harry back.

_ This is how it's supposed to be. _

Ed looks younger than he ever has, in this moment; he's laughing raucously and talking loudly in the language he's known all his life. Because even if he speaks English fluently, could pass as a native speaker if he really tried...Sirius has always been able to tell that he hates the language. He hates what it represents and what speaking it means. It means he's not home; it means he's not with the people he loves...

But that's all been resolved now.

A tall, blond man nearest Sirius and Al glances over, sees the way Al is listening to the conversation and laughing heartily (but is decidedly woozy from blood loss and exhaustion) and asks something of Ed in a worried tone, gesturing to Alphonse. Both of their faces split into impossibly wider grins—Ed's seems wicked and dangerous, the way Sirius' was when James was still alive—and only stare around at them all, waiting for something to happen...

(What's going on?)

But then the blonde woman gasps loudly, her eyes filling with recognition and astonishment and joy, and she croaks a single word that Sirius has no trouble understanding—" _ Alphonse?" _

Sirius does not know why their reaction to the boy's presence is so violent; he has no idea why they all look so shocked that he is here. But the blond man and another—a redhead—quickly pull Al from his grasp, leading him with bright eyes and excited tones to a vacated chair as another rushes to a telephone nearby. Sirius can only stand there, alone for a moment while Ed converses with the woman and grey-haired man, and wonders whether he should leave them to their reunion...

But then the dark-haired man steps in front of him, his eyes dark and narrow and mistrusting, and asks something of him in a tone that Sirius can't quite identify.

He has no idea how to answer; he doesn't know what the man wants, doesn't know what he'll do to him if he is silent...but how can he possibly reply? He can't even understand what is being asked of him...

But Ed glances over and sees what is happening; he pulls himself away from his companions and limps over, grinning at Sirius and punching his arm before saying something to the other man.

And whatever he says, it seems to be exactly what he needs to hear; the man's face instantly relaxes, and his eyes soften; he says something in a decidedly nicer tone. Sirius can only stare at him uncomprehendingly, though, glancing to Ed for help.

But he seems to be enjoying this immensely; Sirius realizes, a bit belatedly, that this must have been how he and Al felt when they arrived in England...with no knowledge of the language here, facing potentially dangerous people whom you know nothing about...

The man's brows are scrunched in confusion, staring at Sirius and clearly wondering why he is not replying. And since Ed doesn't seem about to step in, Sirius sighs, opens his mouth, and hopes he gets the message—"I don't speak Amestrian."

His eyebrows shoot up and he stares at Sirius uncomprehendingly until he glances over to Ed, who is still grinning like a loon. Finally, Ed seems to take pity on him  _ (obnoxious, immature kid _ —but Sirius knows he'd be doing the exact same thing) and says something to the man... _ hopefully _ relaying what Sirius can't make him understand.

His eyes widen in comprehension as he turns back to Sirius, clearly hiding his immense surprise. But he only nods, sticking out his hand and saying, "Roy Mustang."

It takes Sirius a moment to realize what he's saying, but when he does, he almost smacks himself for his stupidity.  _ Of course, this is how we started with Ed, too... _ So he shakes the proffered hand, grinning and replying, "Sirius Black."

_ So this is the Mustang we heard so much about. _ Whatever image his mind has conjured to describe the man...this is not it, because he is so very young _ (a high-ranking officer in a militaristic country who barely looks thirty) _ , but his eyes hold a sort of old, terrible pain that Sirius has only seen in a few people.

_ Dumbledore. Ed. Al. _

He is so young and yet he looks impossibly old, and Sirius can't hope to understand this. But he supposes that it doesn't matter, now; he has a world to live in, a language to master, and people to meet—immediately if not sooner, if Al's cheerful calls from across the room mean anything. He is saying something to the people surrounding him, gesticulating wildly and grinning like a child, and the smile on the red-haired man's face looks genuine as he jogs over, grabbing Sirius' arm and pulling him toward the group.

He has no idea what they're saying, but the camaraderie is clear and undeniable as he's given a chair as well, patted on the back and shaken by the hand until he thinks he might bruise. Names are rattled off to him at lightning speed, and he can barely keep up, let alone decipher which words are introductions and which are excited chatter in the background, because the light in these people's eyes is so bright and so full of happiness that it seems to illuminate the room.

He realizes, all at once, that  _ this is where they truly belong. _ Edward and Alphonse...they were friendly with people, back in England; they were helpful and kind and risked their lives for those they didn't even know...but they always seemed so out of place. And Sirius has never truly understood why...not until now.

The way Ed's eyes are crinkled in laughter as the blond man—Havoc? Or was it Falman—claps him on the back and says something loudly...the way Al is totally disregarding the blood on his face and body, smiling genuinely and laughing all the while as Breda—or maybe Fuery—ruffles his hair affectionately—

_ This is home.  _ This is Amestris; this is  _ everything _ to those boys...and as Sirius watches the reunions continue with undiluted joy, he truly understands  _ why. _

He will never be home again...not really. He'll never see Harry or Remus or Molly or Dumbledore ever again...and he knows that it will haunt him until the day he dies.  _ What could he have done differently? _ and  _ How could he still be at home with those he loves?...  _ But he also knows that this— _ all  _ of this—is worth it, in the end. Because even if he isn't home,  _ these boys are, _ and he's not sure he's selfish enough to wish for his own happiness at the expense of the children who have already given so much.

The hole Remus and Harry left in his soul—so much larger and so much more painful than that left by his magic—will never heal...of that he is sure. But he can learn to live with it, remembering the years he's spent with those he loves and learning to make a new life in this strange new world.

_ He's free. _ _ He's finally free. _

Here, there is no price on his head for a crime he only wishes he committed; there is no Peter in whom he put so much trust and by whom his life was irreversibly shattered. There is no James, no Lily, no Harry or magic or anything even remotely familiar...

But he's a  _ Gryffindor, _ damnit, and even if such a thing does not exist in this world, that doesn't make him any less a member of the house that changed his life. He will persevere. He will carve out a new life for himself, learn to live as a Muggle...and maybe, if he's very, very lucky, he might even learn to be happy.

But what will happen to him does not matter right now. What matters is the group of people surrounding him, accepting him and joking with him like nobody has since his Hogwarts days. What matters are the two boys who never had the chance to be children, laughing and chattering away at such high speeds that Sirius isn't even sure the others can understand...

He is certain he's never seen them so happy. He's never seen Ed's grin quite that wide; he's never seen Al's eyes quite that bright...and he knows, now, that it is because they weren't truly happy in England. Just like he never will be here...

But even if he's been torn away from his home, they've finally found theirs...

And that, he thinks, is good enough for him.


	2. Chapter 2

Soon enough, the Elrics are carted off to the nearby hospital, the rest of the team following close behind. Jean offered to hold down the fort (his legs aren't quite what they used to be, yet, and he's not up for any rushing around), and this new man— _ Sirius, _ Al called him—has also been left behind.

Coming down from the whirlwind of excitement the Elrics' return had brought him isn't quick; he had been loath to think them dead, after all. Those boys are too damn stubborn to die; despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary, Jean had never stopped believing  _ (hoping)  _ that they were still out there, fighting to get home.

(But this is beyond even his wildest imaginings.  _ Home and whole once again. _ Al has been returned to his body...Ed's limbs are made entirely of flesh and blood...)

(Even if their appearance was hardly one of returning heroes—for the blood quickly flowing from Al's wounds was alarming even to Jean's untrained eye—the fact that they're here at all...)

He's known that, even though Marcoh healed his spine and returned Mustang's eyesight, their office hasn't been whole since the Promised Day. Only now does everything feel right again.

But the boys have been whisked away, now, with gurneys and paramedics and IVs despite their assurances that they're  _ fine. _ Jean has been left behind with a stranger with dark hair and piercing eyes; they're sitting in two of the abandoned chairs, saying nothing as the seconds drag on. Jean stretches his legs out before him and Sirius gently rubs his wrist, staring around the office curiously. It's not  _ awkward _ , per se, but Jean just can't stand the quiet.

Well, it's not as if he's ever been a shy man.

"So...who are you, again?" he asks, breaking the silence at last and smiling genially over at his companion. He's never seen him before, but Ed and Al said they wouldn't be here without him; that's as good a reason as any to be friendly. "Where were Ed and Al all that time? Did you—?"

The man's head snapped up when he began speaking, but the look on his face is remarkably blank as Jean continues. He stops himself mid-sentence, raising an eyebrow as the man seems to struggle to reply. "Uh...Amestrian," Sirius says, and the word sounds not-quite-right on his tongue. He pauses again, then repeats himself, shaking his head emphatically. "Amestrian."

"What?" Yes, of course he's speaking Amestrian—he  _ is _ Amestrian—what the hell is the guy trying to say?

He bites his lip for a moment before sighing and shaking his head again. And when he reopens his mouth to speak, the words that come out are some that Jean has never heard before.

_ Oh, damn it all to Hell.  _ The guy's a foreigner?

He supposes it makes sense; he's never seen anyone wear clothes like that. They look rather like a stylized, old-fashioned version of Ed's coat, with an outer layer that falls near the ground and several layers underneath that look vaguely like formal wear.

_ What the hell... _

But hey—Jean never really paid attention in his social science classes, so for all he knows, that could be the style halfway around the world. So he shrugs it off quickly, flashing a grin at the clearly confused man before shrugging. "Okay then..."

But he realizes he has no idea how to proceed, how to carry on a conversation when the only common word between them is the name of the language itself. "Uh...okay." He nods decisively, more to himself than Sirius, then extends his hand, grinning encouragingly. "Havoc."

Sirius smiles back rather bemusedly, shaking the offered hand with a strong grip. "Sirius."

Jean nods, frowning momentarily as he tries to figure out how to proceed. But Sirius seems to decide for him—he gestures to Jean, then to himself, and says, "Amestrian Sirius?"

He's not the sharpest tack in the box, but Jean figures out what he's trying to say pretty easily—he wants to learn the language. Makes sense, he supposes, if Sirius is going to be staying here for any length of time. So he shrugs and nods, and Sirius' grin grows wider; he nods as well, clearly waiting for him to start.

But how the hell is he supposed to teach Sirius the language when he knows nothing of whatever tongue  _ he _ speaks? This is a task better suited to Roy or the Elrics; now that he thinks about it, he heard Al talking to him in that same, strange cadence he heard just moments ago.  _ They're _ the geniuses, not him; surely, Ed and Al know the language, and would actually be able to properly teach this man. But they're not here right now, and he and Sirius have nothing better to do. There's no harm in trying, right?

He ponders a moment more before catching Sirius' eye, making sure he has his attention before nodding, making sure the movement is exaggerated enough. "Yes."

Sirius mirrors the movement slowly, his eyes narrowing as he seems to mull this over. After a moment—"Yes...?"

The word is obviously strange in his mouth, foreign to his tongue, but it's passable enough for a first try. Jean nods encouragingly, and then shakes his head from side to side. "No."

_ Seems intelligent enough, at least, _ he muses as Sirius mirrors the movement again and repeats the word. "Yes?" he offers, clearly questioning his correctness, and Jean shrugs and nods. He's got two words down, at least—two words of thousands, of an entire, complicated language to learn...which Jean is absolutely not qualified to teach him.

God, he needs a smoke.

He glances toward the door to make sure there aren't any higher-ups planning on barging in before pulling his pack from a pocket, lighting one up easily and taking a deep drag. He looks up when Sirius moves, and there's a small grin on the older man's face as he reaches his hand out in question.

Jean answers the grin easily and hands him one as well, sending the lighter along and watching the man curiously as he almost seems to reach for his pocket—but then sighs and flicks the lighter awkwardly, as if out of practice.

Hasn't smoked in a while, then. Well, something traumatizing like this definitely warrants a death stick. Jean won't rat him out.

They sit in companionable silence for several minutes before Sirius makes a questioning noise, pointing at the small cloud of smoke collecting around his head in the stagnant air. It takes Jean a moment to pull himself out of his vague, wandering thoughts, but he finally says—"Ah ...smoke." He breathes in on the cigarette and then out, gesturing to the action before saying, "Smoking."

Sirius nods, clearly filing this away before taking another drag himself, grinning almost conspiratorially over at Jean. He finds himself returning it easily, feeling a strange sort of friendship forming with this man. There's definitely something  _ off _ about him; Jean can see it in his eyes, the darkness that so often plagues the Ishval veterans. He can see, clear as day, that this man has been through Hell.

But that's not important right now; he only cares about the fact that a man he met not half an hour ago is quickly becoming his friend. The ghosts hiding behind his gaze are of no consequence...because here, sharing a smoke with a man with strange clothes and an even stranger language, Jean feels more relaxed than he has in what feels like forever.

_ The Elrics are back. _ They're back, and they've brought a new friend to boot. He can't help the wide grin spreading across his face as he stretches languidly in the chair. Finally, the world is spinning again. Everything is as it should be...

Yeah, he thinks they'll be all right.

.

.

.

.

By the time Heymans finally comes back to the office, Jean has taught Sirius a dozen or so words in Amestrian... And even though they can't exactly carry on a conversation, somehow they're still laughing heartily about something Sirius said in the language Jean doesn't understand. (Whatever it was, it sounded pretty damn hilarious.)

He likes this guy, he thinks. He likes him a lot.

Heymans only looks at the both of them as if they've sprouted another head, waiting bemusedly for them to calm down from their near-hysterics. "I thought he doesn't even speak Amestrian," he says finally, raising an eyebrow at Jean. "What the hell are you laughing about?"

This, of course, only sends Jean into another fit of laughter. "He doesn't," he's finally able to get out, trying (and failing miserably) to stifle his giggles. "Doesn't mean he's not funny as hell."

His friend only stares at Sirius for a moment before shaking his head and sighing. "Right, well. Ed and Al are going to be fine—"  _ obviously, _ Jean thinks—"but Al's lost a lot of blood and there's still bits of Ed's automail stuck in his shoulder and thigh, so they want to keep them for a few days."

Jean nods, glancing to Sirius' tense face when he realizes he probably didn't pick up any of that. "Uh—Ed and Al are good," he says slowly, giving him a thumbs-up for emphasis. Sirius nods, his face relaxing a bit. He jerks his head toward the door. _ Can we see them? _

Probably wants to talk to someone he can actually understand, poor guy. Luckily, Heymans is nodding, already heading for the door. "I've got a car waiting outside—the others are still over at the hospital. Chief's already sick of their room, poor guy." He laughs, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they're following. "Some things don't change, huh?"

Jean laughs as well, shaking his head and standing up heavily, making sure he has his feet properly under him before making his way toward the door. He doesn't have any problems walking once he gets going, but his balance is still off after so many months confined to the wheelchair. "Well, they'll be going home soon anyway. His mechanic can take care of the metal, right? They won't stay longer than they have to..."

It's almost like a punch to the gut, to realize this... Now that they've achieved their goal, neither of the Elrics will want to stick around in the military. He's always known this; it's wavered at the back of his mind, at the edge of thought, but he's never paid it any attention. Of course, he's wanted them to return to their normal bodies. He would be a horrible person to wish them anything else. But now that it has come to pass, and he's faced with the realization that they're going to be leaving Central, probably for good...

They're his friends, and they've only just returned from everything but death. He wishes he could convince them to stay.

The car ride is spent in silence, though it isn't an awkward one. Sirius is staring around at the interior of the car, hadn't seemed to know to fasten his seatbelt until he saw Jean and Heymans do it themselves. There's a strange curiosity to his gaze, as if he's not used to riding in a car...which, Jean supposes, doesn't make sense. He doesn't give it much thought.

(Who is he, this foreign man who can't be past his thirties but whose eyes look so old?)

Soon enough, they're at the hospital, and Heymans is leading them up several flights of stairs. Sirius' eyes are wide as he takes in the hospital and its many inhabitants, but his face splits into a genuine grin when they arrive at the Elrics' room. He sweeps in without further ado, making a beeline for the boys' beds on the opposite side of the room, where Mustang and the others are congregated. Hawkeye half-rises, one hand going for her gun before she sees who they are.

When Jean arrives at the boys' bedsides, he sees Alphonse fast asleep, his mouth wide open as he snores lightly into his pillow. Ed, on the other hand, is sitting up, clearly irritated with the sling restricting his right arm, and arguing a mile a minute with Mustang, who seems to be torn between cuffing the boy about the ears and embracing him in a rib-crushing hug.

"C'mon, Mustang, we're fine—once we get Al pumped full of blood again—Winry can take care of my ports, we should be getting home—"

"We've just gotten you back, Fullmetal," he replies lightly, raising one eyebrow. "I know you think so little of us, but we tore apart half the country searching for you and your brother. It wouldn't kill you to stay for a while."

Ed flushes, his eyes flashing in pain for a moment  _ (he missed them too  _ but he'd never say it aloud) before shooting back—"You should've known we were all right. Seriously, you think we'd die because of something like that? We were  _ fine _ —"

"Alphonse's destroyed armor claimed otherwise. And when you didn't return from the Gate, what were we supposed to think?"

This cuts Ed off abruptly, and his throat bobs as he swallows back whatever sharp retort he was prepared to give. And Jean knows—he  _ knows, _ because Ed's face has always been so easy to read—that whatever happened to them, it wasn't good. It was anything but easy, even if Alphonse has clearly had his body long enough to recover, and they've turned out all right in the end, and Sirius—whoever he is—has come home with them. He doesn't know who or how or where or why, but he knows enough.

(He has to remind himself that they're only children. Maybe it's good for them to get out of the military now, while they still can; he doesn't want to see any more ghosts haunting their too-old gazes.)

Ed doesn't seem to know how to respond, so he allows his eyes to wander toward Jean, Sirius, and Heymans, standing a few feet from the edge of his bed. His face lights up in some semblance of a smile as he catches Sirius' eye, and he says something quickly in the language only they seem to know. Even Roy—who Jean is fairly certain is supposed to know several languages since his encounter with that  _ Gate _ —shows no recognition of what either of them is saying as Sirius responds. Maybe there's something more going on here... but Jean figures he probably shouldn't ask. Not now, at least.

Instead, he glances toward Alphonse, still sleeping like the dead. He is heavily bandaged, but it seems that—whatever attacked him—missed any vital organs, and he avoided any serious head injuries. Like Ed said, Jean decides, he'll be all right soon enough.

(It's strange, he realizes, as he watches the boy's chest rise and fall. He's never seen Alphonse before. Not really. Before today, he's never seen him sleep, never seen him eat, never even seen him  _ breathe _ ...and the sickening wrongness of such things twists unpleasantly in his gut, even if all has been resolved now.)

_ (They deserve to go home.) _

"We won't wake him, will we?" Heymans asks from beside him, following Jean's line of sight and sending a worried glance toward Ed. "He needs to catch up on his strength, right?"

"Nah," Ed says, waving a hand dismissively and switching tongues as if it requires no effort at all. "He sleeps through anything. Waking him up's as hard as making Mustang do his paperwork."

Jean chuckles at the sheer  _ normalcy _ of such a comment, such a snippy, condescending remark from Ed that usually pulls an indignant rebuttal from Roy and a resigned sigh from Alphonse. But now, when their return is so fresh and overwhelming and _ here, _ none of them have the heart to do anything but laugh raucously along with Ed.

(Jean's never seen a smile so wide and bright on the boy's face...not once in the four years he's known him.)

He's continuing his fast-paced conversation with Sirius, now, leaving the others to their own devices as he gesticulates wildly. Sirius, though suddenly subdued, is nodding his agreement, glancing over at Havoc and the others before saying something in reply. "Right," Ed says, suddenly understandable again as he turns to Mustang. "Well, once we  _ do _ head home, Sirius'll be coming with us until we figure out where he can go. We should probably call Teacher, too—" here, he shivers, and Jean winces in sympathy as he remembers all the horror stories he's heard of this woman over the years—"and let her know we're okay..."

"He's not going home?" Heymans asks in surprise, glancing toward Sirius with raised brows. "He's not from around here, right?"

"He can't," Ed says bluntly, though his fists clench and his eyes flicker away for the smallest of moments. "That's not possible anymore. He'll have to stay in Amestris."

There's  _ definitely _ a story behind this, but the way Ed's eyes flash in grief, the way Sirius' shoulders are slumped in loss...this isn't something he should bring up. Jean's mind is whirling with possibilities—it has something to do with alchemy, surely; it has something to do with their sudden and yet-unexplained return—but he doesn't know enough about anything to come to any sort of conclusion. Whatever it is...

It's brought the Elrics back, but with such joy comes the deep sadness in Sirius' and Ed's gazes. That's an equivalent exchange, right?

(Maybe that's why he can't understand alchemy—because he has to hope, sometimes, that there's another way. Surely, happiness doesn't always have to come at such a cost.)

The others have noticed these things too, and are quick to remedy it. Fuery reaches over to pat Ed on the shoulder, giving him a tentative smile (Ed returns it, and even if it's suddenly subdued, it's still Edward and it's still  _ family _ ); Riza stands suddenly from her chair, ushering Sirius to sit in it and stepping out of the room, saying something quietly about getting them coffee.

The rest of them sit in silence for several minutes; Sirius seems to be observing his hands (long-fingered and bony, as if he's been starved and never quite recovered), and Ed's brow is furrowed in thought as he stares somewhere past Roy's shoulder, worrying the inside of his cheek. No one dares to break it, to pull them out of whatever dark and wandering thoughts have accompanied them back home...but soon enough, Hawkeye is back, two cups of steaming coffee in her hands. Ed takes one immediately, a muttered "thanks" passing his lips as he drinks deeply; Sirius takes the cup willingly enough, but only stares curiously into it for a moment before shrugging and taking a sip.

The look on his face is absolutely priceless as he clearly  _ just _ stops himself from spitting it back out all over Ed's sheets.

This breaks the silence quite spectacularly, and Ed's face splits into a grin as the others laugh. Sirius apparently makes an aborted attempt to swallow the coffee, because next thing any of them know, he's coughing, leaning forward as his face turns an interesting shade of red. Jean pounds him on the back amicably until his airway clears, and everyone laughs even harder as Sirius immediately passes the coffee off to Jean, grinning and shaking his head through his embarrassment.

(Who the hell's never had coffee before? Jean rolls his eyes and downs half the cup in one go, despairing of foreign cultures and people who have never known such a wonderful drink.)

.

.

.

.

Alphonse wakes up a little later, bleary-eyed but cheerful; before long, Ed has manhandled the rest of them into wheeling them out to the phone down the hallway. He wanted to walk, but Roy assured him in no uncertain terms that the doctors would have all of their heads if he tried to put weight on his newly-restored leg before the residual port was removed. Ed harrumphs loudly and makes quite a show of flopping himself into the wheelchair, but he doesn't protest as Sirius takes hold of the handles and follows Jean and Al out into the hall.

As soon as he's within reach, Ed grabs hold of the phone and spins his finger around the dial quickly—even after all this time, apparently, he knows the Curtises' number by heart. The ringing is easy for all of them to hear through the earpiece, and Al leans forward as it continues for several seconds before someone finally picks up.

"Curtis Meats—Izumi speaking."

Both Elrics' face splits into huge, relieved grins; even though everyone promised them that she survived the battle, Jean's sure that hearing her voice is much more reassuring. It takes Ed a moment to compose himself enough to reply, and after several seconds, Izumi tries again, "Hello?"

Ed swallows thickly, licking his lips and gripping the phone tighter before choking out, "Hey, Teacher."

Silence. Then, "Who is this?"

Ed flinches, and Jean can understand why; her voice is low and dangerous, and though he's never personally met Mrs. Curtis, he knows enough about women to know when they're seconds away from screaming at you. Even Sirius takes a tentative step back, staring at the receiver apprehensively though he can't understand a word of what they're saying.

(Ed pulls the phone several inches from his ear before he replies, which is probably a very good idea.)

"It's—it's me," he says, laughing a little hysterically. "Ed. And Al's here too. We're back, we found our way back, we're fine and—"

She cuts him off with something Jean can't quite pick up from this distance...something he would label a screech if he didn't know better. There's some yelling—not toward Ed, but to someone on her end of the line, and after several seconds, Mrs. Curtis turns her attention back to the phone.

"I'll skin you, boy—do you have any idea—you've been missing for  _ months _ —"

Sirius' eyes are wide as she goes on and on; Ed's holding the phone at arm's length, now, as Mrs. Curtis continues yelling...and she doesn't seem about to stop. "Um, Teacher?" Al tries tentatively, speaking loudly in the direction of the phone in the hope of quieting her. "We really did try to come back earlier, but—some stuff happened, we couldn't, we didn't know how—"

"What do you mean,  _ you didn't know how?  _ You idiot boys—" But then she cuts herself off, silent for a moment before gasping, " _ Alphonse?" _

And Jean realizes why after only a moment—his voice sounds the same as it always has...but when he was in the armor, it held a distinct metallic edge that was hard to miss. But now—even over the phone line, Jean's sure—his voice sounds different...and exactly as it should _ . _

"Yeah," Al says with a wide smile, and it's clear in his voice he knows what Mrs. Curtis is talking about. "Brother's limbs, too."

She's quiet for a moment, only deep, calming breaths coming through the receiver as faint static. Then—"Where are you? Central? Resembool?"

"Central," Ed says immediately, "but we were gonna go home soon, once we've caught up with everyone and—"

"We'll be there tomorrow," she cuts him off, her voice loud and  _ daring _ them to contradict her. "Make sure your asshole of a commanding officer has someone there to pick us up from the station."

"Um—Teacher—"

"I'll see you then," she says, as if she hadn't heard him. Ed's jaw snaps shut audibly, clearly not daring to risk crossing her in such a state. "I want to know exactly  _ what the hell _ happened to you—you'd better have an explanation, young man..."

"Yes, ma'am," Ed says (his meek expression would be comical if Jean wasn't just as terrified) and he pauses, holding the phone awkwardly between the two of them, as if not sure whether he's supposed to hang up.

"Oh—Ed, Al," she says, and Jean can't quite read her tone of voice. Both boys snap to attention, though, staring a little apprehensively at the phone before Ed dares to answer.

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you're back."

(And if there's a strange—almost motherly—softness to her voice with these words, Jean can't find it in him to blame her. After all, watching the Elrics' shoulders relax, he knows she's feeling that same overwhelming relief that had so recently engulfed him and the others. She's just gotten her family back, whole and safe...)

It's as if the Elrics' return has righted the world again, fixed it back to its proper axis...

And he's sure, now, that everything will be all right.


	3. Chapter 3

Sirius has been through Hell. He's stared down Death in all its glory, faced the darkest wizard to ever exist...

But that doesn't mean he's not scared shitless of angry women.

Lily, so many years ago  _ (no don't think about it) _ , was one of the only ones who could actually get him to sit down and listen when she needed to. Professor McGonagall. Molly Weasley. Even Hermione, for Merlin's sake, was pretty terrifying in her own right.

(They're gone, now—or, rather,  _ he's _ gone, because surely they must think him dead after he disappeared through the Veil— _ God, _ Harry and Remus—)

He forces his thoughts away from those darker corners of his mind, focuses on pushing Ed's wheelchair back toward their room. He didn't understand a word of what the terrifying woman on the phone was saying ( _ "Teacher," _ the Elrics had called her), but her tone made it clear that the boys are in trouble.

And as Ed mutters up to him that she's coming to visit, will be here by tomorrow, Sirius has to swallow down his terror and simply hope that they'll all survive the encounter.

All of them spend the rest of the afternoon idly chatting; Sirius learns new words in Amestrian as they go, and he's slowly picking up on more and more of the conversation—though almost all of it still goes right over his head. Either the military men have been given leave, or they just don't care about skipping work; all of them have crowded into the ward on folding chairs filched from other rooms, clearly glad just to be near their long-lost friends as the hours pass them by.

Eventually, even Mustang's rank cannot keep the Healers from shooing them out as the sky darkens outside; both boys, though not seriously injured, still need their rest if they are planning on leaving so quickly. The lead Healer—a nice enough man, from what Sirius can tell, but the no-nonsense sort—exchanges words with Mustang and the others before pointing emphatically at the door, saying something else.

Sirius narrows his eyes, turning the man's words over in his head, but he doesn't understand any part of it.

"He said you guys can come back tomorrow," Ed says helpfully, tugging a bit on his sleeve to get his attention, "but the bastard's kicking you out now. Says we need to  _ recover. _ "

Sirius nearly laughs at the rather disgusted tone, but then stops short as he realizes— _ he has nowhere to go. _ Being homeless is not a new concept to him; as miserable as it would be, he's sure he would be able to find a nice street corner to sleep on, maybe even sneak into a hotel room—

(He'd spend the night as a dog, but  _ he can't, not anymore, _ and he chases the thought away almost the moment it enters his head. He doesn't have time to lose himself in what he no longer has.)

But Mustang seems to have realized his problem, too; he's suddenly in front of him, considering him carefully before finally turning to Ed and saying something in Amestrian. "He says you can spend the night at his flat," Ed says quickly, turning to Sirius and nodding. "For as long as we're still here."

Sirius hesitates—he's leery of accepting charity from anyone, even if he has no money and no knowledge of this world—but really, it'd be stupid to turn down such a generous offer. So he smiles at Mustang tentatively, nodding his thanks, and after they've said their good-byes to the Elrics, the rest of them leave the hospital.

After a quick drive back to the military headquarters to pick up their individual cars, Sirius is sitting shotgun in Mustang's vehicle, staring awkwardly out the window as the other man drives in silence. Cars are strange things, he thinks; he's ridden in them once or twice, when he was young, and Remus' mother allowed them to borrow hers for joyrides...but it's been so many years, now, and he finds himself jumping at every application of the brakes, every turn and acceleration and—

(This world—the  _ Muggle, Amestrian _ world—will take some getting used to.)

Eventually, Mustang parks his car outside an old apartment building, opening the door and gesturing for Sirius to follow him. A few flights of stairs later, they're entering Mustang's flat, and Sirius finds himself looking around curiously as the other man pulls off his coat, hanging it in a closet and heading further inside.

He's not sure what he expected of a non-magical home (he's never been in one, not even the Evans' small house that James visited so often), but it's not all that different from a magical one. True, there aren't any dishes washing themselves, or knitting needles hovering in midair, or house elves or cursed cabinets or—

It still looks like a home—like any normal home—and he feels himself relaxing at the familiarity of it all before following Mustang into the kitchen.

It's a tiny flat—not unlike the one Sirius lived in after he left Hogwarts—but Mustang moves around it easily, squinting at Sirius for a moment before nodding to himself and turning toward an overhead cupboard, pulling out a large pot. Soon enough, there's water boiling on the stove (Sirius doesn't know what's powering the heat if not magic, but has no way of asking, so he only files it away for later), and Mustang is pulling boxed pasta from the pantry, holding it up toward Sirius in question.

Honestly, Sirius is so hungry by this point that he doubts he'd turn anything down. (After all, the last meal he ate was breakfast, early this morning, before they went to the Department of Mysteries...and this has been one of the longest days of his life.) So he shrugs and nods, and Mustang turns back toward the stove, dumping the noodles into the water. Sirius seats himself at the small table, staring around the kitchen curiously.

They eat dinner in a not-quite-awkward silence; Sirius digs into the pasta heartily, looking at Mustang in question for only a moment before taking seconds and then thirds. The younger man, apparently full after only one helping, looks rather bemused as Sirius finishes off the rest of the pot. He eventually sets his fork down and grins sheepishly over at Mustang, but he waves him off with a laugh.

Soon enough, the two of them are washing dishes, crowded around the cramped sink and small drying rack. Sirius hasn't done this the Muggle way in years—come to think of it, he's not entirely sure he's  _ ever _ done it like this. After all, when he was younger, they had Kreacher for all the household duties, and by the time he moved out, he was close enough to legal that he didn't bother with restrictions, especially living in the Potters' house...

The dishes are done quickly, though, and Mustang gives him another considering look before gesturing for Sirius to follow him down a short, narrow hallway. They pass what looks like a broom cupboard and a bathroom before they enter a small bedroom; Mustang motions to the bed, and Sirius immediately realizes what he's trying to say—

_ You stay here tonight. _ Which means Mustang will have to take the couch, as there could not possibly be another bedroom in this tiny flat.

Sirius will have none of it.

He scowls at Mustang, shaking his head, pointing emphatically at the other man and then at the bed. Mustang—strangely enough—rolls his eyes and smirks before simply turning around, shutting the door behind him as he leaves the room.

_ Stubborn bastard. _ .. But honestly, he's too exhausted to argue (and it's not like they could have a proper argument, anyway), so he only pulls off his boots and outer layers, sending a cursory glance around the room before plopping down on the bed. His wand juts out from his back pocket (Mad-Eye would have his head—but he shoves that away quickly, not wanting to lose himself in memories in the darkness of a stranger's home), and he pulls it out, simply holding it in his hands as he stares blankly.

For thirty-six years, magic—his own, inherent, magical ability—has been an essential part of his life. He's never imagined one without it: a life without charms and jinxes, without Apparition, without Floo Powder and Hogwarts—a life without his Animagus form...

(But he never imagined a life without James and Remus and Peter either, and yet, here he is.)

He shakes his head like it will do anything to clear it, setting his wand down gingerly on the bedside table before lying down. Even if it's nothing more than a stick now—to him and to everyone else in this world—he doesn't think he's willing to part with it.

His sleep that night is restless and troubled.

.

.

.

.

Roy honestly doesn't mind sleeping on the couch that night; after all, if this man, Sirius, is truly the reason the Elrics are back home...he deserves anything and everything they have to offer. Giving up his bedroom is the  _ least _ he can do.

He wakes early even without an alarm, but is reluctant to rise when his head is still so comfortable on the couch. He remembers everything that happened yesterday in startling clarity, and knows he should probably get up soon in order to visit the hospital. (The Elrics' teacher, after all, took an overnight train, and he should be there to run damage control before she arrives.) He has a guest in the house who somehow speaks a language he cannot understand, and who—if his bony hands and ravenous appetite the night before are any indication—needs to be stuffed full of food as soon as possible...

Maybe he'll call Gracia, see if she'd be willing to have everyone over for dinner. At the very least, she'd want to know that the Elrics have returned.

_ God, _ there are so many people that need to be notified—Fuhrer Grumman, of course, will need to know—and Ed's inevitable resignation will have to go through him, too, before the boys can ship themselves back to Resembool. Armstrong— _ both _ of them—the Hugheses, those Xingese children who have long since returned to their own country—

Hell, they might as well put it in the papers, because there aren't many who  _ didn't _ mourn the Elrics' disappearance.

He hears some quiet rattling in the kitchen, realizes Sirius must be up and attempting to make breakfast. And though he's sure the older man knows how to cook well enough, his stove can be finicky...so he decides to intervene before he accidentally burns the last of his bacon.

It's several moments before he's able to convince himself to roll to his feet, though, and he's still bleary-eyed and yawning as he makes his way into the kitchen. Sirius is indeed standing in the middle of the room, frying pan in hand, with several eggs cracked into it...but that's all he's doing. He apparently hasn't even attempted to turn the stove on, and is staring at Roy with a bit of a sheepish grin, offering him the pan with a shrug.

Maybe his country doesn't have stoves, somehow? Or maybe his has just flat-out died and they're going to have to resort to cereal. Roy is honestly too tired to care. Stifling another yawn into his left hand, he accepts the eggs without question, shuffling toward the stove and turning the dial experimentally.

It works. Excellent. Hot food for breakfast always wakes him up.

He moves toward the coffee machine, too, almost pulling down two mugs before remembering Sirius' rather spectacular reaction to the drink the day before. So instead he only grabs one, gestures toward the refrigerator for Sirius to pick whatever drink he wants, and waits for the machine to pour him his caffeine.

The morning isn't awkward—not that the night before was, exactly, but it was a little strange to share dinner with someone you've barely met, whom you can't communicate with, and who has apparently saved two of your friends' lives. Maybe it's because Roy is still half-asleep now as he shuffles around the kitchen, but it seems almost  _ natural _ to have Sirius there too, buried in the fridge, digging around for something to drink.

Eventually he emerges with the gallon of orange juice, accepting a cup from Roy just as the coffee machine starts in earnest. Soon enough, the eggs are done, and the two of them sit down for a quick breakfast. Sirius' shaggy hair is wet from a shower, but he's wearing the clothes he had on yesterday—Roy realizes suddenly that the man had nothing with him when they arrived, and if he needs to stay in the country, he'll need clothes, money, identification...

Maybe he can convince Riza to take care of all of that. Even after all this time, he hates paperwork with an overwhelming passion.

Soon enough, they're done with the eggs, and Roy ducks down the hall to wash up and change before he and Sirius get in the car. Roy called Headquarters last night, after he shooed Sirius into his room, and explained that he (and, likely, his whole team) would be taking the next day or two off. Grumman's secretary had sounded irritated, but had only said that the Fuhrer would be notified before hanging up.

Roy snorts at the memory. Even Grumman—ever the scheming bastard—will be pleased to hear the news.

Sirius shoots him an odd look, for he can't possibly know what he's thinking about...but Roy only shakes his head before pulling onto the main street.

(He hopes the Elrics teach this man to speak Amestrian soon...because he seems like someone Roy would get along with very well.)

They don't speak during the car ride, but Roy watches Sirius out of the corner of his eye as the older man tenses at every turn, every time he accelerates and every time he brakes. His fingers are wrapped tightly around the edge of the seat, and Roy doesn't doubt he'll be glad to get out of the car once they arrive.

_ Why? _ Is his country so backwards that they don't even have  _ cars? _ He resolves to ask the Elrics later.

When they get there, the hospital is still standing, so Roy assumes Hawkeye hasn't yet arrived with the Curtises. Mrs. Curtis is not a force to be trifled with, and he knows she treats the Elrics like she would her sons. And her idea of parenthood—well—it definitely makes Roy glad she's not  _ his _ mother.

Sirius' face splits into a wide grin as they walk back into the Elrics' room, and he makes a beeline for the boys' beds, leaving Roy to trail behind him. Soon enough, the three of them are speaking briefly in Sirius' language, only sparing a moment for Roy and the others—Falman, Fuery, Havoc, and Breda are already here. Soon enough, all of them are engrossed in a lively conversation about all that the boys have missed, but Roy knows it's only the calm before the storm. He can see the way Al's hands are clenching the bedsheets tightly, the way Ed's eyes keep flickering toward the door, and knows exactly what is coming for them.  _ It's only a matter of time. _

Sure enough, maybe half an hour after Roy and Sirius arrive, there is suddenly a huge amount of yelling from downstairs—and the Elrics freeze immediately, cutting off mid-sentence to stare at the closed ward door, the color quickly fading from their faces. Sirius looks equally terrified—though he's never met the woman, he's apparently heard enough about her to understand exactly what he's gotten himself into.

_ God help us all. _

All too soon, the door slams open—a familiar woman in a white dress and house slippers storms in, fury practically rolling off her in waves, and Fuery and Havoc instinctively shrink back from her rampage. Sirius—Roy is impressed—stands his ground, next to Al's bed, though his eyes are wide and his face is bloodless.

Ed and Al, on the other hand, look as though they've just signed their own death warrants. Roy resigns himself to paying for the funeral.

But instead of destroying them all, she only stands in the middle of the room, her husband a few steps behind; nobody dares to break the tense silence...not until she crosses to their beds in several long strides, and something Roy would call a sob echoes through the room as she pulls Alphonse into a hug.

Al seems just as surprised as the rest of them, but just as soon as they've all realized what is happening, Izumi pulls back, delivering a solid punch to his less-injured shoulder with a growl before turning to the elder brother. Ed shrinks back into his pillow, his face pale as the sheets, but he receives the same treatment: a bear hug that he tentatively returns, and a solid punch to the left shoulder that sounds incredibly painful.

_ Well _ . Roy can guess with some certainty that Izumi's relief at seeing them alive has kept at bay any homicidal tendencies...at least for now. But he doesn't feel safe relaxing just yet, not when she steps back from the bed, regards the military officers with barely-concealed contempt (and Sirius with unspoken curiosity), and says, "You two have thirty seconds to explain to me why you had us worried sick before I'm forced to extend your hospital stay."

Breda flinches out of the corner of Roy's eye, and if possible, the Elrics' faces lose even more color. "And who the hell  _ he _ is," she adds as an afterthought, jerking her head toward Sirius with barely a glance in his direction. "Unless he's another of your idiot Colonel's new recruits."

Technically he's a brigadier general now, but Roy doesn't dare to correct her, not when she's on such a rampage. Ed and Al stare at her for a moment before turning toward each other, sharing a silent conversation before they start talking at the same time—

"See, Al got pulled back to the Gate when the Homunculus—"

"I'm not sure what exactly happened, but we woke up in a—"

"They were  _ weird, _ didn't speak any languages we can understand—"

"But then  _ Pride _ was there—"

" _ Stop!  _ Stop," Mrs. Curtis says finally, shutting them up immediately; Roy can even hear their jaws click shut. She rubs her forehead for a moment before saying, " _ One  _ of you, from the beginning, slowly."

Five minutes—and a fantastical story that Roy wouldn't believe had he not seen their deathly serious faces—later, they've all been, apparently, caught up in where the Elrics have been for the past seven months...

And, well,  _ damn. _

That explains Sirius' strange appearance and incomprehensible language, at the very least...but of all the explanations Roy's mind has come up with, this was definitely not one of them. Parallel universes?  _ Really? _ His mind immediately runs through the physical implications of such things, whether it would even be  _ possible _ —and his head is pounding only moments later. Did the Elrics actually figure out the logistics of such things, or just leave it be? Though they wouldn't have had a lot of time for such theories, if Pride's presence was as terrifying as they've made it out to be...

"How does that even  _ work, _ though?" Havoc asks into the silence that's pervaded the room. "Aren't there—you know—alchemy things that make that impossible?"

Izumi huffs, rolling her eyes, but Al shrugs and says quickly, before she can interrupt, "We started looking into it, but then once...everything started, we really didn't have much time to think about it."

"Right," Jean says agreeably, leaning back into the wall and pointedly avoiding Izumi's glare. "Well, just thought I'd ask. You guys're the geniuses, after all."

Ed huffs as well, though he preens like a peacock like he does every time someone gives them a compliment. (Roy's forgotten he's missed this; but he's glad that even after so much has happened...some of it has stayed the same.) "The important thing is that we're back, right?" the boy says with a shrug. "Winry'll have a cow when we go back home. And—" his face contorts slightly as he cuts himself off, and it's a moment before he continues, "and what about our old man, anyway? He still in Resembool? I'll have to kick his ass, too—"

Roy feels himself go very still, even as the others in the room stiffen around him. They haven't told the boys: Hohenheim, truly the only one able to stand up to the Homunculus, had brought that monster down with the military's help, but it had been too much...his Stone had finally been used up.

There had been nothing any of them could do to save him, even as Ling Yao and Doctor Marcoh had both offered their own Stones. Hohenheim had refused them both— _ "I've lived far too long...use those for a good purpose...one that will make a difference." _

He had died with grief clear in his voice, mourning the loss of his sons who—he thought—were far beyond any of their grasps.

"...Your father," Izumi says, and her voice is so subdued that both Elrics immediately stiffen, their eyes snapping to her, "defeated the Homunculus, but...it cost him his life. He is buried beside your mother; Mrs. Rockbell said that is what he would have wanted."

Neither of them say anything for a moment, and Roy wonders with an uncomfortable jolt whether they are going to cry. He wouldn't fault them for it—even if they were never the closest with their father, he's still  _ blood _ , and hearing of his death must be a cruel shock...but he's never seen Edward cry (and, truly, is still getting used to seeing Alphonse's face), and he's not sure he'd know what to do with them, should such news bring them to tears.

But he should have known better; though Al's face has gone suspiciously blank and his eyes are brighter than normal, Ed's features only twist down into a frown, glaring daggers at the opposite wall as he says, "Useless excuse for a father...serves him right."

Everyone pretends not to hear the way his voice cracks, pretends not to see the tears forming in his eyes.

(And that's the end of that, even if it's really not.)

.

.

.

.

Sirius still can't really communicate in Amestrian at all, but that first day, the Elrics' teacher comes up to him as they're leaving the hospital—and he has to force himself not to cringe away, because her right hook had been impressive, back in the hospital room. But she does not look at all angry; Sirius knows that the Elrics explained to the rest of them what happened, caught a few words he understood—his own name among them—so he shouldn't be surprised when she only smiles at him, relief in her eyes, and says, "Thank you."

The Amestrian words for  _ you're welcome, _ or  _ it was no trouble  _ (even though it was, and there is still a physical ache in his chest that he is sure will never go away), or  _ those boys are worth it _ (because they are, and that's the whole reason he's here in the first place) are far beyond his grasp, but he smiles back at her all the same, offering his hand.

Her hand is calloused as she shakes it, her grip unexpectedly strong, but the respect is clear in her face and in her stance, and Sirius nods to her and her husband  _ (he could be Hagrid's brother) _ as they walk away with Breda, toward one of the military cars.

If this is the woman who taught the Elrics nearly everything they know...then he's not surprised that they've turned out the way they have.

.

.

.

.

He's been in this universe for almost a week, now—staying at Mustang's flat, slowly starting to learn this strange language, and adjusting himself to the fact that he is stranded here—when the Elrics are finally released from the hospital.

Sirius suspects that Ed had a say in it being so early (a rather  _ loud _ and  _ threatening _ say), because Al is still half-wrapped in bandages, and Ed has been forced to use a crutch under his left arm until he can get back to his mechanic. Ed's grumbled to him about the doctors going on about the danger of _ nicked arteries _ and  _ nerve damage _ , about how their worries are unfounded because  _ honestly, if the automail was going to kill me it would have a long time ago _ ...but Sirius has to admit that they probably have a point, and it's better to be cautious.

(And Ed's evidently decided this as well...because if he hadn't, he wouldn't be using the crutch at all.)

The boys are discussing something with Havoc excitedly as Mustang drives, and Sirius thinks he'd be able to catch more of the conversation if only they would  _ slow down. _ He doesn't really mind, though; he's slowly grown comfortable with the others, even if communication is limited. Wherever they're headed—because Mustang had shoved him, the Elrics, the Curtises, and the rest of the team into several cars and simply started driving—he supposes it must be someplace safe.

(His wand is still in the inside pocket of his robes, and it brings him some sort of irrational comfort, even though he knows he cannot ever use it again.)

Eventually, they all arrive outside a nice-looking apartment building, and everyone piles out of the cars and makes their way upstairs. Ed grumbles, awkwardly keeping weight off his left leg as he ascends the staircase, while Al explains to Sirius quickly that they're going to meet some of their friends.

So when they finally make it to the door, and Mustang rings the bell, Sirius is expecting to see someone perhaps the boys' age, or a little older...not a cannonball of pastel dress and brown pigtails that barely reaches his knees, careening past him to attach herself onto Ed's legs, nearly knocking him over.

" _ Uncle Ed!"  _ she shrieks, and the joy so obvious on her face makes Sirius grin as well despite his surprise. The woman who follows the girl to the door is a bit more sedate in her greetings, but the happiness and relief are clear on her face as she takes in Ed, who has carefully knelt down, giving the girl a tight hug. The woman invites the lot of them inside, though not without sending Sirius a curious, guarded glance, and staring at Al in surprise.

From what he can gather from Ed's hurried explanation, the woman—Mrs. Hughes—was the wife of Mustang's best friend, and that she makes the  _ best damn quiche in any universe.  _ Sirius isn't so sure about that—both Mrs. Potter's and Molly Weasley's quiches were delicious enough to kill for, after all—but he'll give Gracia a fighting chance, especially as, after listening for several minutes to indecipherable chatter, he finds himself greeted with a brilliant smile (someone has, evidently, explained who he is), and a plate laden with food is shoved into his hands.

The little girl—Elysia—has stayed attached to Ed's side for much of the initial greetings, though she stares curiously at Al in a way that has Sirius thoroughly confused. Surely, if she knows Ed, she must know Al? The brothers are inseparable, after all, and he's sure that it was not just confined to their time in England.

"Why's she looking at you like that?" he asks Al in an undertone...though it's not as if anyone but Ed would understand them, anyway. "Does she not recognize you?"

Al's face crumples for a moment, and he's silent before he finally opens his mouth—"It's...complicated. Before we wound up in England, I didn't exactly look the way I do now."

"Right," he says quickly, for he clearly remembers the emaciated, long-haired boy that first appeared in his kitchen. "But—"

Just then, he feels a tugging at his pant leg, and he looks around to see Elysia staring up at him with a small pout on her face, her little brows crinkled in concentration as she stares up at both him and Al. When she finally says something, the only thing Sirius can catch is "Ed"—but luckily, Al laughs and answers her, leaning over to Sirius quickly—

"She wants to know who you are and why you're so skinny, and why I look so much like Ed."

Sirius laughs as well (though that same line from so many others—a worried Remus, a horrified Molly, a Poppy Pomfrey beside herself with confusion and concern—echoes through his mind, and despite all their best efforts, he's never fully regained the weight he lost in Azkaban) and smiles kindly down at Elysia. Honestly, he's a bit out of his depth here—he spent a lot of time babysitting Harry, true, but he was much younger than this girl. He saw Tonks, of course, when she was small—but Andromeda had eventually forced herself to cut ties as the war raged on, for the safety of her family.

He doesn't blame her, of course. Nymphadora (he can almost  _ feel _ the slap upside his head from his cousin's rebuttal) had been very young at the height of the war. But such limited exposure means he really has no idea what to do with small children,  _ especially _ those who don't speak the same language as him—

Elysia seems to have decided for him, though, because she clambers up onto the couch before plopping unceremoniously onto his lap. She stares up at him for a moment before offering him her plate of quiche, her face  _ daring _ him to disagree. Sirius glances up at the Elrics—and a passing Havoc—and sees the wide grins on their faces, before shrugging and nodding, taking the plate from the girl and digging in.

It  _ is _ good, he will admit —though he thinks James' mother's was better—and he eats it heartily under Elysia's watchful eye. When he's scraped the last bits of food off the plate, Elysia nods her approval and hops down to the ground, hurrying back to the kitchen—probably to get him some more.

He turns to Al rather despairingly, but the boy only laughs at his expression. "She's stubborn when she wants to be—don't expect to get yourself out of this one unless Mrs. Hughes tells her to stop."

Sirius snorts, resigning himself (without any true regret) to such a fate, and watches as Elysia returns to the sitting room, another full plate of food held carefully in her small hands.

He casts his gaze around the room as the Elrics are drawn into other conversations, taking in the homey space and its lively occupants. Displayed prominently above the mantle—upon which a folded green flag rests in a place of honor—is a large portrait of Elysia, Mrs. Hughes, and a dark-haired man with glasses. All three of them have wide smiles on their faces, and the adoration is clear in the man's eyes as he stands with his family.

"That's Papa," Elysia says quietly from her place in his lap, following his gaze, and her voice is so suddenly somber that Sirius turns, alarmed. She continues speaking, staring at the picture of the man who can only be her father, but Sirius cannot pick out more than a few words; he does his best to listen, to understand, but his Amestrian is rudimentary at best, and he has no idea—

But there are  _ tears _ on the girl's face, now, and his eyes widen as he tries to figure out what to do. Clearly, something happened to the girl's father—recently, as she's not much older now than she is in the portrait. And he has no idea what she's continuing to talk about (as her voice is choked with tears), but he puts his plate aside, carefully wipes her cheeks with his sleeve, and hugs her tight to his chest, humming a song Lily used to sing to Harry.

Maybe this isn't what he's supposed to do with toddlers, but it's all he knows...and from the way Elysia's holding tight to the front of his robes, he thinks it's the right thing to do.

(And he does his best to hold back his own tears as well, because the last time he saw a man look at his wife and child with such an expression of love, it had been his best friend...and the striking similarities between this man's and James' appearances hurt him more than he wants to admit aloud.)

.

.

.

.

When Al returns to the couch a little later (figuring he should save Sirius from Elysia's iron will before the girl drags him into something too insane), he finds a slumbering Elysia with a loose grip on Sirius' robes—and a lightly dozing Sirius, a few tear tracks marring his face and his arms wrapped around the girl protectively.

Al only stares for a moment before shaking his head and smiling sadly, deciding to leave them be for now...because no matter how disquieted Sirius' expression has been this whole time he's been in Amestris, this is possibly the most calm he's ever seen him.

Maybe, at least for a little while, Sirius can pretend that everything will be all right.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s nearly two weeks later that the three of them are finally on their way to Resembool.

Ed doesn’t begrudge his friends for it, of course (even if walking around with a crutch has been more than irritating, and he had half a mind to simply get the procedure done in Central—but he knows Winry would never forgive him for it). It is a bit exhilarating, though, finally being in the open air. Central—and before that, London, stuffed in a tiny corner of a huge city with little for company but the mold and the dark magic—is…confining, and Ed has always preferred the open skies of his hometown.

Watching Sirius stare out the window with as close to a true smile as he’s come in nearly a month, Ed thinks his friend agrees.

Al is snoring softly, his head pillowed on a balled-up jacket against the window, and the other two have fallen into comfortable silence, simply letting time pass them by as they get closer and closer to Resembool. They didn’t call the Rockbells to tell them that they’re back—mostly because they want them to see them in person first. He doesn’t doubt that Winry will whack him across the face with a wrench when she finds out that they’ve been back for a whole month…but he thinks the alternative—telling them they’re back but then not coming home immediately—would just be cruel. After all, they can’t leave Den home alone—can’t up and leave town like Teacher and Sig did, especially with Granny’s advancing age. No, Ed was sure, this was the best solution available to them.

Al, surprisingly enough, agreed with him. And so now they’re on a train, heading toward the only family they have left, knowing full well that all Hell will break loose as soon as they arrive…

(Ed can’t bring himself to care, though…not when he’ll be seeing Winry and Granny for the first time in almost a year.)

The long train ride passes mostly in silence, even as the other passengers all around them chatter about this and that. Ed, oddly enough, does his best to revel in the comfortable quiet that his life has been lacking for so long. It’s odd—he’s been so high-energy for so long that simply  _ sitting, _ without any worry or fear or adrenaline driving him forward, leaves him jittery and confused. He gratefully accepts this peace his life has found, but at the same time…he yearns for something more.

(Already he feels the wanderlust pulling at his heart, and he’s not even properly home yet.)

Sirius’ face relaxes when they pull into the Resembool station, when he steps stiffly off the train with his suitcase full of clothes Ed bought him (and that was an argument hard-won, because Sirius is nothing if not proud, and taking charity from someone—no matter how necessary—is something he refused to do for so long), and his eyes close briefly as he breathes in the clear country air.

Ed rouses his brother quickly, and the two of them step off the train after Sirius, beaming around at the familiar surroundings. That’s one of the things Ed loves the most about Resembool: it’s so unchanging, no matter how long he is gone. The station looks just the same as it always has, and he thinks he recognizes some of the people milling about in the market, as they move away from the train. Nobody pays any notice to them—likely because they’ve grown so accustomed to seeing Al as a suit of armor—and the three of them are out on the country road soon enough without incident, leaving the bustling market behind.

They will have to bring Sirius there, later. Though he may not stay in Resembool forever, he will be here for a while, and the slow, idyllic life here is so very different from the fast-paced Wizarding World that Ed knows it will require a great deal of adjustment.

(But first, they’ll have to work on his Amestrian, because while it has improved quite a bit, he still has a long way to go.)

“It’s a few miles down the road,” he explains to Sirius in English for his benefit, because even though he’s been adamant about only speaking Amestrian, Ed knows that all three of them are far too distracted (and exhausted from the long train ride) to have such a conversation right now. “Not too many cars around here—but it’s a nice walk, especially in spring.”

Sirius hums, looking nearly content as he looks around at the open fields before tilting his head back to look at the sky. “There’s so much of it,” he murmurs, clearly not intending for them to hear, and Ed only huffs before striding ahead with renewed vigor.

The little yellow house appears on its hill soon enough, and Al’s face splits into a wide grin as he hurries closer, forcing Ed to work hard to keep up with his crutch. Sirius—taller than either of them, the damn bastard—keeps pace easily, though he’s clearly still distracted by their surroundings, and the strange expression (caught halfway between contentment and grief) has not left his face as they grow nearer and nearer to the Rockbells’ house.

There’s no one on the front porch, not even Den—but Ed realizes that it must be nearing dinnertime. So he simply strides up to the front door, sends a quick grin back to Al and Sirius (the former sighs and shakes his head, and the latter smiles back rather bemusedly) before rapping firmly on the door.

Almost immediately, there’s cursing from inside the house, growing louder as Winry makes her way toward the door. “If this is some—“

But then she flings the door open; her eyes alight on Ed, grinning guiltily at her, and the words die in her throat.

Ed waits as patiently as he can as Winry’s eyes widen, as she realizes exactly who and what she’s looking at…but after several moments of staring, and with Granny’s voice starting to echo back from the kitchen, wondering who it is, he decides to take matters into his own hands.

“We’re back,” he offers, offering a small wave even as he half-ducks, expecting to get hit in the head with some sort of wrench. After all, crutch or no—long-lost friends or no—Winry seems to do such things instinctively.

But instead, he’s surprised to be nearly knocked off his feet by the force of her embrace—and Al laughs from somewhere behind him even as he flails for a moment, attempting to catch his balance before tentatively embracing her back.

“We thought you were dead!” she accuses, not pulling away from his shoulder, and the tears falling from her eyes are tempered by the dangerous edge to her voice. “Mustang himself came, after everything was over—he told us you were  _ gone _ —“

“It’s…complicated,” he offers, and winces as Winry finally pulls away from him, glaring him down. “We  _ were _ gone, we couldn’t get back—but we finally did, a few weeks ago, and…here we are?”

The end comes out as more of a question than an explanation, but Winry doesn’t seem to notice; her attention has been caught by Al, behind Ed, and she nearly  _ flies _ toward him to pull him into an even tighter embrace.

“Hey, Winry,” Al says quietly, a grin splitting his face, and returns the embrace much easier than Ed did. “It’s great to see you.”

“You—!” Winry seems to be beyond words, only gripping the back of Al’s coat tighter as tears continue to fall from her eyes. Ed falters—hugs are easy enough to give, but that’s about the extent of his comforting abilities, and even after all these months, he  _ hates  _ to see Winry cry. Before he can attempt to do anything, though—feeble as such efforts would be—Granny and Den arrive at the door, clearly wondering what is taking Winry so long.

“Ed!” Granny’s incredulous voice drowns out even Den’s excited barking, and he grins sheepishly down at her as she stalks outside, her eyes wide and pipe held between shaking fingers. “What—?”

Both of the Rockbells seem beyond words, and Granny only  _ just _ has the presence of mind to catch Den by the collar before she attempts to run Ed down in her excitement. Eventually, Winry does pull away from Al, wiping her eyes roughly on her sleeve before yanking on his hand, pulling him toward the house and leaving Ed and Sirius behind. The elder looks on with some bemusement, raising an eyebrow at Ed; he only huffs in response, gesturing for him to follow.

“Who’s this, then?” Granny asks, stepping in front of both of them before they can get too far and raising an eyebrow. “Your military escort?”

“Our friend,” Ed corrects, shifting his crutch under his good arm slightly, “and the only reason we’re back home at all.”

She’s clearly surprised, but makes no comment about it. “Well, any friend of the Elrics is a friend of ours. Come on inside—dinner’s nearly ready, and I think Winry made an apple pie this afternoon…”

Ed perks up at such news—apple pie, after all, is not something to be missed, especially when Winry makes it—and moves forward quickly, hearing Sirius fall into step behind him.

Winry is busy setting out three extra plates, and Al is seated in a chair with the distinctly disgruntled expression of a person who has been ordered to sit still and not offer his help. Ed collapses into the next chair over, leaning his crutch against the wall as Sirius sits on his other side. 

The older man is staring around at the kitchen, taking everything in with the look of one still not used to such things. Ed knows he’s lived with magic for the past thirty-six years—knows that a single month in a Muggle setting will not have acclimated him to such things yet. But he has to stifle a laugh at the rather astonished expression on Sirius’ face as he looks at the gas stove, the electric ice box—things that are so commonplace in Amestris, but so strange to one brought up as a wizard.

Soon enough, dinner—chicken and potatoes—is set on the table, and Granny bemoans the addition of three extra— _ male _ —mouths to feed, muttering under her breath that she’ll have to stock up the pantry earlier than she thought. There is no true anger behind her words, though, and a pleased little smile refuses to leave her lips as she watches Ed and his brother dig into the meal.

“Who are you, again?” Winry asks after a few minutes of silence, peering at Sirius critically. Her eyes are still red, but her tears have dried…and none of them make any mention of the fact that she’s scooted her chair several inches closer to Ed and Al, as if to make sure they won’t disappear again.

Sirius takes a couple of seconds to finish chewing, clearly mulling over her words to ensure he’s understood them correctly. Eventually, he nods slightly to himself, saying, “Sirius Black—Ed and Al are my friends.”

It’s stilted in the way that betrays him as a foreigner. Even though he’s been learning the language remarkably quickly—mostly because he asks for lessons constantly, and insists upon a total-immersion approach that Ed has to commend him for—his accent is thick, and both Winry’s and Granny’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“Where are you from?” Granny asks, enunciating the words a bit more than Winry did, and Ed shoots her a grateful glance even as she stares at Sirius, clearly interested in the answer.

“England,” he says, shrugging rather helplessly and glancing to Ed. “It is not here.”

“That’s part of the problem we had in coming home,” Al says quickly, catching both the Rockbells’ attention. “We—got stranded in England, and we had no idea how to get back. See, it’s…basically, it’s in an alternate universe. To get us back, Sirius sacrificed nearly everything…and now he’s stuck here, permanently.”

Neither of them seem to know quite how to answer that; their eyes are wide as they shift their attention again to Sirius, who clearly didn’t catch all of Al’s explanation, but at least understood the gist of it. “Thank you,” Winry blurts out, her fists clenching on the tabletop, and the words are heartfelt and honest as she meets Sirius’ eyes. “Thank you for bringing them back.”

“You’re welcome,” Sirius says as his lips turn up a bit, and it’s clear that there’s more he wants to say for which he cannot find the words…but it’s enough for Winry and Granny, who smile genuinely back at him. 

The rest of dinner is spent in silence; though Winry opens her mouth to speak a couple of times, staring with pained eyes at both Ed and Al, she doesn’t say anything. When she eventually brings the apple pie into the dining room, a little bit later, both of them fall upon it with a vengeance—but Ed remembers suddenly that Winry’s pie had topped Al’s list of foods he wanted to eat, back when he was still confined to the armor…and he instead decides to watch his brother’s face light up as he takes his first bite. This seems to cheer Winry, too, especially when Al turns his nearly blinding smile her way—and she abandons all pretenses of normalcy then, throwing her arms around him in an impossibly tight embrace that Al returns readily, laughing as he pats her on the back.

“We’re home now,” he assures her, and Winry smiles as she pulls away from the embrace, still holding tightly to Al’s arm. “We’re safe, and whole again—you won’t have to worry about us anymore.”

She chokes a laugh, punching him lightly with her free arm as she says, “You idiots, I  _ always _ worry about you.”

Ed laughs as well, feeling any last vestiges of worry or stress over their homecoming fall away. Things are the same—they are  _ exactly _ the same—and they are here, with Winry and Granny, just as they should be, with limbs and bodies and hearts fully intact.

Except, he supposes as Granny walks around the table to better inspect his thigh and shoulder, this last surgery to make him functional again.

.

.

.

.

Sirius feels rather skittish, the next morning, alone as he is in this unfamiliar house with only the faint sounds of Ed’s surgery for company.

His friend had explained to him—in English, much to his chagrin, but too many of the technical terms would have been lost to him in Amestrian—that it’s a relatively simple procedure, simply pulling the remnants of the automail port from his shoulder and thigh. It’s simpler than the installation of the limbs, anyhow, which involved free-hanging nerves and muscles and  _ bone _ and had to be performed without numbing agents, while he was  _ awake _ and  _ fully functioning, _ and Sirius can’t even imagine the pain he must have gone through. Even if the end result was so amazingly functional…

But the idea of such a minor surgery still worries him, and vaguely nauseates him as well—at St. Mungo’s, it would have been a simple enough procedure, some advanced charm to extract, essentially, shrapnel from the patient’s skin. (More than once, during the first war, he knew someone who was brought in for such things—or had to go himself.) But such an invasive procedure—for which Ed is, thankfully, knocked out cold—sends shivers through his own body, and he is incredibly thankful that he does not have to be present for it.

Blood and guts are fine. Merlin knows he’s dealt with such things too many times in his life. But surgically cutting someone open…

He’s distracting himself by familiarizing himself with the rest of the house (pointedly avoiding the bedroom-turned-operating room, kept sterile and off-limits to everyone else), wandering the kitchen and the halls and the machining room and looking on in wonder at the Muggle devices contained here. After all, he’s done some mechanical work in his life—memories of his motorbike jump to mind, and he wonders with a sudden, irrational pang who will take care of it now that he is gone. But such hobbies have always been augmented by magic, and he’s curious about the saws, the welders, all the ingenious tools that have replaced magical means in these people’s lives.

He can’t glean much from the room by himself, though, and resolves to ask Pinako or Winry later about the different tools. In the meantime, a bulletin board in the front hall has captured his attention. It’s full of pictures—unmoving, Muggle, and faded with age, but still well cared for and clearly treasured—from various times. There’s someone who can only be a younger Pinako, sitting with a large blond man in a pub—Winry, barely out of infancy, with a man and woman, clearly her parents—a younger Ed and Al with a woman with dark hair and a beautiful smile—

It’s so odd, to think that the two of them were children at one point. Surely, they’re barely out of childhood even now—Ed isn’t quite seventeen, after all—but they act so mature, far beyond their years. Single-handedly saving England from sure destruction by Pride—clearly expecting to do the same for Amestris, and tearing themselves up about it when they were isolated from the war, unable to fight—

They are children, but they’re  _ not _ , and Sirius carefully unpins one of the pictures—he’s no judge of age, but he doubts either of them were yet old enough to attend school—and studies it closely, trying to understand. Ed looks nearly the same, except for the short-cropped hair and the easier smile; Al’s cheeks do not have the pinched quality to them that they do now, even after months of Molly’s watchful care. (He wonders again what left the boy in that state, in that emaciated, barely alive body that crashed in upon his and Remus’ heads so many months ago.)

He looks closer, attempting to discern the difference, and glances up at the rest of the photos as well. In the pictures of the boys when they were older, the dark-haired woman—their mother, likely—is nowhere to be seen, and Winry’s parents, similarly, disappear when she is young. He feels the absence of adults in this house keenly, and realizes with a sharp pain to his chest that perhaps the Elrics and Harry had more in common than he first thought.

The strangest part of the board, though, is the pictures of the time after Ed lost his limbs—because Alphonse disappears abruptly, and the towering suit of armor that Ed drew for him on that first night takes his place. Sirius squints at, attempting to figure out who is wearing it—but the armor towers over Ed by at least two feet, and Al is definitely not that tall. There are never any pictures where the person takes the helmet off, never any instances for him to see anything but cold steel and eerily glowing red eyes.

He blinks and shakes his head, wondering whether it has anything to do with the alchemy he’s never understood, and carefully replaces the picture of the boys’ younger years. The front door is toed open, then, and Al walks in, balancing several bags of groceries carefully in his arms. “Hey, Sirius!” he calls cheerfully, what is visible of his face lighting up in greeting. “If you’re not busy, could you help me with these—?”

Sirius agrees easily, taking a couple of the bags and carrying them into the kitchen, putting the perishables in the ice box (another ingenious invention, because he’s never thought of how Muggles kept their food cold without cooling charms) and placing everything else carefully into the pantry. “They still working on Ed?” Al asks, and his voice is surprisingly calm, in Sirius’ opinion, especially where his brother is concerned.

“Yeah,” Sirius says, for there has been no news from upstairs, and Pinako promised to fetch him when the surgery is over. “I am looking at the house. The pictures of you and Ed are…interesting.” He growls quietly in irritation, for it’s not the word he’s looking for, but the questions gnawing at his mind make it difficult to concentrate on the Amestrian.

But Al laughs all the same, catching his meaning easily enough. “Yeah, Granny’s got all sorts of stuff up in the hall,” he agrees, heading that way and jerking his head as if asking Sirius if he plans on following. “I can tell you who everyone is, at least—might clear some things up…”

The pretty woman is, indeed, the boys’ mother—and Al’s face flashes in pain as he recalls how she passed, more than ten years ago, now. Their father, the blond man at the pub with Winry’s grandmother—and Al also points out a horribly battered photo in the corner of the board, of the same man posing with the boys and their mother. (Sirius attempts to reconcile the ages without success, because the Pinako in the picture has to be at least forty or fifty years younger than the Pinako he knows now, yet the man looks exactly the same in both pictures. But he puts it aside for now, resolving to ask one of the others later.) Winry’s parents, doctors killed on the battlefield…

Al explains all of this but does not mention the more recent photographs, of Ed and Winry posing with the suit of armor like they did for years with Al—and Sirius feels the questions bubbling to the forefront of his mind again as his friend simply stares at the board with a rather sad smile on his face. “Where are you?” he finally settles on, because even though it’s not as direct as he’d like, he does not know the Amestrian word for  _ armor _ and can’t ask about it outright. “After Ed—lost his arm and leg.”

“Ah,” he says, a bit uncomfortably, shifting from foot to foot and glancing to the board before looking back to Sirius. “It’s…kind of a long story, but the armor—“ he gestures to a picture for his benefit, and Sirius nods, filing away the new word for later—“that’s me.”

Sirius’ brows shoot up, because while it’s not an entirely surprising answer, it simply  _ doesn’t make sense. _ “We should probably wait to explain it until Ed’s conscious again,” Al continues quickly, clearly unwilling to discuss it at all right now. “It’s—well, basically, it’s the whole reason we ended up in England in the first place.”

“Okay,” Sirius agrees, because he supposes he can’t argue with him on that, and Al smiles before retreating to the kitchen, calling something over his shoulder that Sirius is too distracted to understand. He finds himself walking toward his makeshift bedroom—put together hastily the night before, as the Rockbells rarely need two separate guest rooms—distracted by his own thoughts as he sits down on the bed.

He’s been doing his best to put off these toxic feelings, during the weeks spent in Central and then the long night he spent here, in Resembool…but such blatant reminders of  _ family  _ and  _ home _ have brought the memories back full-force, until he feels ready to drown beneath the onslaught. He knows that he should do his best to feel like he belongs here, in Amestris; he knows he should take this opportunity at face value, as a second chance at life—one without a false conviction hanging overhead, one without regrets and ghosts chasing after him at every step…

But he can’t stand it—can’t stand the fact that he does not know the language, does not know the people or their customs—and he does not know how to live without  _ magic, _ despite every vehement denial in this last month that it was worth getting these boys home, because it  _ was _ —but  _ Merlin _ , he misses Remus and he misses Harry and the gaping hole in his chest is growing wider by the day—

He stows his wand safely in the bedside drawer, nearby and familiar and yet as useless as any other stick of wood, now. And with it are three precious photographs, invaluable but at the same time a mockery of what he has lost—because whatever magic created them has stayed in them still, and those small, faded faces still smile and laugh, and the photographs are every bit as animated as they were in England.

(He  _ hates _ it here, even if he knows it was worth it to bring Ed and Al home.)

He holds onto the vision of Remus, laughing and spending time in Grimmauld Place with him, chasing the darkness away—he clings to the memory of a cheerful HarryandJames, who he finds blend together too often in his mind (but he can’t find it in him to care, because one is the father and the other is the son and surely that’s close enough, right?)—

He does his best to remember but he is here, and they are there, and these two universes are irreconcilable. He will never see Remus again, or James, but he does not truly know this, yet, because he’s still half-convinced that he’ll turn the corner and see scruffy hair and round glasses and a bright smile—

(There are voices calling through the house in a language he can’t find it in him to understand, and he knows he has to snap out of this—but it’s so  _ hard, _ because he is here, alone, and even though the Elrics experienced the same, stranded so far from home and saving the world, they did it  _ together,  _ as  _ brothers _ —but his brothers are dead and his brothers are gone and he can’t—he can’t—)

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Winry and Pinako emerge from the operating room around lunchtime; Ed, apparently, is knocked out with a healthy dose of painkillers for the rest of the afternoon, sleeping off the surgery. According to a very pleased Winry, he’ll make a full recovery within a couple of weeks, and be able to run and spar and fight as well as he could before.

Al is clearly pleased by this news, and for good reason—Sirius should not begrudge him this (James is dead your brother is dead  _ nohe’snot _ ) and does his best to seem appropriately cheered as well. The Rockbells don’t seem to notice anything odd (though, he supposes, they’ve known each other for less than a day—how would they know anything about him?) and Al is too distracted with finishing up lunch, setting it out for them, nearly glowing with pride as Winry and Pinako compliment him on his cooking.

The rest of the day goes relatively smoothly, though Sirius finds himself in a black mood that he does his best to keep from the others. It’s not their fault, after all—it’s not anyone’s fault but his own, because he’s too  _ weak _ to pull himself out of this—

(But, after all, what would be the point when he has once again lost every person he’s ever loved?)

Al has been giving him sideways looks all afternoon, though, and as soon as dinner is over Sirius excuses himself to his room, claiming exhaustion in faltering, accented Amestrian. (He hates every syllable that falls from his lips, because it’s not his and it’s not  _ home _ but it’s the only option he’ll ever have again—)

Pinako watches him with a strange look in her eye, then, takes in his bony hands and greasy hair and the bags under his eyes, and there is something in her gaze that Sirius can’t understand. But she says nothing, and Winry wishes him a good night, promising that Ed will be awake and talking by the morning, and Al looks as if he wants to reach out to him but is holding himself back.

Does he want that unspoken offer of an embrace? Of all the people in this room, Al understands best what he is going through.

But he doesn’t—doesn’t think he could stand any more human interaction today—and gives them what he hopes is a reassuring smile as he retreats upstairs, locking the door ( _ manually, _ and his hands tremble, because this is so so wrong and it shouldn’t bother him as much as it does) behind him and collapsing onto the bed.

He doesn’t move the rest of the night, but neither does he get even a moment of sleep.

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Pinako sees something on this man’s face that she can’t quite place, but for which she feels creeping worry and dread nonetheless.

She trusts him not to hurt her or her granddaughter, of course—if he has earned Ed’s confidence, then he is undeniably a good person...after all, that boy does not trust easily, scarred and jaded as he is. But even with Al’s explanation of being stranded permanently in a different  _ universe _ , something seems to haunt his every breath, and something dark lurks behind those dull grey eyes.

“Is he all right?” she asks as soon as she hears the door close upstairs, turning toward Alphonse with a frown.

The boy hesitates, glancing from Pinako and Winry to the stairs and then down to his dinner. “I don’t know,” he says at last, fiddling with his fork with too-bony fingers. “He…his life, it’s been Hell. And he had anchors, in England, but now that…”

He takes a shuddering breath, his jaw clenching for a moment, and Pinako wonders what kind of life the man must have led for  _ Alphonse Elric _ to call it Hell—“I’m worried about him.”

“What can we do?” Winry asks, leaning forward slightly with a frown. “He saved you guys, we need to help him—maybe if we can help him get accustomed to Amestris—“

Al hesitates, though, not meeting either of their eyes as he says, “I don’t think…that’ll help, much. He doesn’t know how to cope. With things. When he was younger…” But he shakes his head abruptly. “I’m just worried he’s not going to adjust like we were able to.”

“You’re worried what he’ll do if he snaps,” Pinako says, and it’s truly not a question—she’s lived long enough to see men pushed past their limits, knows the harsh reality of grief and despair and what it can do to people and those around them. “Will he be a danger to us?”

“No,” Al says in a low voice, and his fists clench on the tabletop. “I’m more worried that he’ll be a danger to himself.”

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The long-awaited explanation comes to Sirius the next evening, with Ed sitting up in bed and impatient to leave it—Al and Sirius are keeping him company, chatting about nothing in particular and avoiding the obvious topic of Sirius’ well-being that both Elrics clearly want to discuss.

(Sirius isn’t sure whether he’s grateful for their discretion or furious for the way they’re clearly waiting for him to snap.)

“Brother,” Al says during a lull in the conversation, glancing to Sirius before turning to Ed, “Sirius was asking about the pictures of me in the armor, downstairs.”

The elder’s face twists into an ugly cross of pain and self-hatred before he, slowly, nods, turning to Sirius with a considering gaze. “I guess this is a long time coming, huh?”

The story comes out in fits and bursts, the forbidden alchemy and the Gate’s tolls—and Sirius is horrified to hear exactly how it happened, even though he’s known since his own trip through the Gate that it had taken Ed’s limbs. But—Al’s  _ whole body? _ He can’t even imagine what that must have been like, existing as a soul confined in a steel body—

It can’t have been much better than existing as a ghost, and Sirius feels himself reeling as he realizes exactly how hellish these boys’ lives have been.

The rest of the story goes through his mind rather distantly, vaguely listening to the boys’ explanation—even when they switch to English, clearly sensing his distraction. Ed, joining the military on the off-chance that he might find a way to save his brother—and he has heard the story of the Promised Day, of course, of the Homunculus’ tyranny and exactly how close this country came to being wiped out forever…

But it, eventually, has a happy ending—they are together, still, and home, and whole, and this is all they have ever wanted in life. And Sirius can’t bring himself to resent them—after all, he was the one who made the conscious decision to give up all but his life to give them this life and this happiness…

(But he’d be lying, as they finally finish the tale and he finds that he has absolutely nothing to say to them in response, if he claimed that he isn’t blindingly jealous of the happy ending they’ve finally earned themselves.)

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Pinako’s cleaning the house while the others are out, several days later—might as well, she figures, as the Elrics will likely be here indefinitely, and Sirius will have to stay, at least, until he’s able to eke out a living for himself. The boys don’t mind sharing a room, and Sirius seems content enough with the smallest room on the highest level, the one with the large bay window facing east. All that fits in the room is a single bed, side table, and desk, but he has never complained about it, and truly, Pinako knows he does not have enough things to fill a larger room, anyway.

The boys dragged him and Winry out to Market Day, so she is left alone for the afternoon and glad for it. Though it’s getting steadily colder—December is fast approaching, after all—she has the sudden urge for some spring cleaning, and so she’s cleaning the bedrooms, changing the sheets and dusting and tidying up after her generally chaotic charges.

(She’ll deny to the end of her days that a motivating factor is also to see what this Sirius Black keeps in his room, what he pores over for hours at a time…or whether he’s simply lost in his thoughts.)

She trusts him not to hurt her family…but she feels she’s entitled to some wariness, when even Al—who has always,  _ always _ thought the best of everyone—is skeptical that he will be able to bounce back. The room is nearly bare, but chaotic—the clothes Ed bought for him in Central are everywhere. Some are hanging haphazardly in the closet, but most are thrown across the floor. The only thing carefully hung up is a strange set of clothes she’s never seen him wear—something between a casual suit and a floor-length robe.

The style of clothing his homeland wears? She’s never seen anything like it, but disregards her curiosity in favor of carefully replacing the clothes in their proper places.

(Even if she’s fairly certain they’ll find their way onto the floor again in a matter of days.)

The bed is undone, the sheets scattered everywhere as if he spends most of his nights shifting restlessly. She gathers them up carefully, putting out a new set to ask Winry to put on later, and hesitates before turning to the bedside table.

She really shouldn’t. It’s none of her business. He’s an adult who has gained the Elrics’ trust, clearly has no interest in harming any of them… But she has three teenagers under her protection, and honestly, she’s horribly curious about this man and what he might keep.

So she pulls open the drawer, pulling out the contents, and her eyes nearly pop right out of her head at what she sees.

They’re photographs, clearly—but they’re  _ moving _ , and she has to blink several times to ensure that her eyesight is not failing her at last. But no—there are several of them, and the top one shows a young family, a red-haired woman and a tall man with glasses, clutching a tiny, dark-haired boy—perhaps a year old—to his hip and beaming with pride.

It would be a normal photograph, people Pinako might smile at in the market, people whose child Winry would coo over, covering her broad smile with one hand—but the woman is waving—actually  _ waving _ —at the camera, and her hand is moving back and forth, her eyes crinkling into a smile. The child’s mouth is moving in silent gurgles, his little leg kicking against his father’s stomach, and the man’s smile widens as he shifts his grip on the boy.

This—what  _ is _ this?

She flips the photo over, rather nonplussed, and there is a line written on the back in neat print that she can almost guarantee is not Sirius’— _ James, Lily, and Harry, a moment of peace, September 16, 1981. _

_ 1981? _ She blinks at it for a moment before deciding that the date is not the oddest part of the situation, flipping it over again and peering more closely at the photo. The parents are barely into their twenties, if Pinako’s any judge, but a wedding ring glints on Lily’s waving hand, and there are dark circles beneath their eyes, nearly thick enough to match Sirius’.

_ A moment of peace? _ Clearly, something further was happening that the caption does not elaborate on.

She flips to the other two photographs quickly—one of Sirius with a greying, tired-looking man and a black-haired teenager (no caption on the back, and in significantly better shape), and one—much older—of four teenage boys roughhousing and waving cheerfully toward the camera  _ (James, Sirius, Remus, Peter—NEWTS are finished! Finally!, June 25, 1978) _ .

What— _ how is this happening? _ She’s no master of alchemy, but she’s certain its power does not extend to something like  _ this. _ And anyhow, Sirius has not shown any aptitude for (or interest in) alchemy during his week here…

(Although, to be fair, he hasn’t shown much interest in anything at all, except a couple of hours where he asked about the different parts of the machining shop—and that has been the most animated Pinako has ever seen the man.)

She replaces them carefully in the drawer, feeling around in the back corners for more and coming up with a curious stick, nine or ten inches long and covered from end to end in strange runes. She only stares at it for a few moments before carefully replacing it in the drawer as well; after all, though two of the photos are faded and creased, they are well-cared-for, and if the contents of this drawer are the only remnants Sirius has of his homeland…

She closes the drawer carefully and leaves the room, deciding to ask him about it later.

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“Sirius.”

He looks up through slightly unfocused eyes; the day at the market was exhausting, and while it was pretty interesting, looking around at the hustle and bustle of these people, he has still been unable to shake this feeling of  _ wrongness _ that has haunted him ever since he arrived in Amestris. In addition, the fast-paced haggling of the merchants as the Elrics bargained for lower prices was far beyond his level of comprehension, and the press of strangers speaking a foreign language he’s expected to understand has been grating on his nerves all afternoon.

He’s exhausted now, and all he wants to do is sleep, but Pinako is staring at him with a piercing gaze (far too reminiscent of McGonagall, and the thought brings an irrational pain to his chest) that has him pinned to his chair. He only raises an eyebrow at her as she approaches him after dinner, as he’s half-heartedly sipping a cup of water and staring at his half-full plate.

“I was cleaning today,” she begins, without preamble, though Sirius is grateful (and hates) that she’s slowed down her speech, to ensure he’ll understand. “Changed the sheets, hung your clothes up again.”

“Yes,” he says, because he saw that the room he’s staying in had been tidied when he went upstairs before dinner. “Thank you.”

“I was cleaning,” she says again, chewing on the inside of her cheek for a moment with a frown, “and when I opened the bedside table in your room, I found some pretty amazing things.”

…Oh. Sirius’ jaw tightens as he remembers—he’s been forcing himself to walk around without his wand. It’s stupid of him to keep it on hand, after all, and the Elrics didn’t even have theirs when they made that last, mad dash to the Department of Mysteries. They’re still—likely—sitting on the kitchen table at Grimmauld Place, or else stashed in a drawer somewhere, forgotten about and unneeded. But Sirius never left home without his—and even now, he felt naked this morning as he left the house, the inside pocket of his jacket hanging limp and empty.

_ And the photographs,  _ the ones he sometimes spends hours just staring at during the night, the drapes flung wide to show the sky, the lamp lit so he could see those tiny faces smiling up at him.

_ James is gone,  _ and Remus is gone and Harry is gone _ — _

But Sirius can’t handle this fact, and so he doesn’t—simply imagines that they’re all back where they should be, and James got to see his beloved son grow up without a damned war looming over their heads—

“They are my friends. My brothers,” he says slowly, not meeting Pinako’s eyes as his fists clench. “From home. I cannot see them again.”

Pinako’s face softens, then, and as Sirius glances to her eyes for the briefest moments, she’s considering him with a thoughtful expression. “If you wanted,” she starts slowly, clearly ready to back off if it’s received badly, “we could put them up in the hall with the others. It’s where we keep our family photos, you see—whether it’s family by blood or by choice. And I’m sure Ed and Al would like to take a photograph with you as well, if you’re not opposed to it.”

A spark of panic runs through his veins at such an offer—giving up the last remnants of his family and putting them on display for all to see—he almost refuses immediately. Those pictures are  _ private, _ and nobody in this entire damn  _ universe _ ever met James or Lily—they wouldn’t understand the brilliance of James’ smile, the calming quality of Lily’s voice that could make absolutely anything better…

And even Ed and Al would not understand a Remus, young as he was in his Hogwarts days, with dark hair and easy smiles and none of those ghosts hovering just behind his eyes. They wouldn’t understand Peter, either—the depths of the brotherhood he shared with the rest of them, and the agony of his betrayal when the war destroyed the innocent boy he once was.

(Sirius hates Peter—despises him with every fiber of his existence for being too weak and  _ not telling anyone _ because—he thinks—they could have done something—they could have saved Peter and so saved James and maybe the war would have raged on but  _ at least his brother would still be alive—) _

(He hates Peter for what he did—will never,  _ never, _ forgive him for it—but he also remembers clearly the happy memories the four of them shared at Hogwarts, and so can’t bring himself to tear him out of the only photograph of his friends that he has left.)

These photos are precious to him—they are his only anchor to where he should be, to what used to be and what could have been—but he knows these sleepless nights cannot be doing him any good, and he realizes (in some dark corner of his mind), that staring at these photographs will not bring him back to where he belongs.

So he agrees with shaking hands and a clenched jaw, carefully retrieves the photos from his room, and helps Pinako make room for them at eye level on the board.

The old woman leaves him with another smile and a pat on the arm, but Sirius does not move for several minutes longer, simply staring at the friends who are long beyond his reach.

(Despite the innocence displayed in photos of the Elrics’ younger years, despite the happiness in those pictures that contrasts sharply with the wartime photographs from his own life, he can’t help but think his photographs far outshine the rest.)

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Winry takes his picture with the Elrics a few days later—both boys agreed amicably, though not without worried glances toward each other that Sirius pretends not to notice—and develops it soon after. Sirius does his best to smile at the camera, but he can feel his hands shaking as they wrap around Ed’s and Al’s shoulders in a gesture he shared too often with his brothers…

And when the picture comes back, it’s placed right in the middle of the board—a place of honor—but Sirius can’t help but think that his smile looks frozen and forced, that Ed should be James and Al should be Remus and  _ it’s wrong wrong WRONG— _

(He spends hours sitting in the hall in the middle of the night, when he can’t sleep…but he avoids looking at that one, because it reminds him that he’s  _ here _ when he should be  _ there _ and James is dead and Remus is gone and this isn’t right, it will never be right again—)

(He feels  _ wrong, _ here, like his skin doesn’t quite fit over his bones, like his brain doesn’t quite fit within his skull…and he wishes every moment of every day that he could be reunited with his family again.)

(He wouldn’t regret for a second leaving any of these kind people behind.)


	5. Chapter 5

Isn’t it supposed to get easier, as time goes on?

Sirius has been in Resembool for four months—in Amestris for nearly five—but he still spends his nights staring at the ceiling and the stars, spends his days doing his best to convince the others that he’s fine even when they all know he’s not.

Ed and Al are worried, he can tell. They saw him—not happy, not carefree, but perhaps more  _ sane _ —in England with Harry and Remus. Now, seeing him like this, they can surely tell the difference. Winry and Pinako did not know him before (honestly, do not know him now), but he’s seen the sideways looks from them as well, during dinner or during the few times he’s ventured into the shop to watch them work.

His hands itch to build, to create, to do  _ something. _ But his wand is useless and stowed away, and his fingers are yet bony and ugly to look at, and his hands shake too much for the delicate work required of automail construction—even if he knew the intricacies of the designs, which he does not care to learn.

More than once, Winry has offered to show him the blueprints, to pick apart an arm or a leg with him to show him how they work. She’s clearly spurred on by the knowledge that he had some interest in mechanics, likely heard from Ed or Al about it—but Sirius simply cannot muster the energy to care. He turns down her offers each time, trying to be nice about it…but, of course, Sirius Black has never been known for his tact or his kindness.

Eventually, she stops asking.

His Amestrian is greatly improved, though he still speaks with an accent that he hates more and more with every word he speaks. The language is harsher, more guttural than English, and even as his tongue and throat struggle to create the sounds, his mind rebels at the thought that this is the only language he will ever be able to speak again.

(When he’s sure he is alone in the house—when he’s made his excuses to the Rockbells and the Elrics, that he isn’t feeling well today and should probably stay inside—he speaks English to himself, mutters it to the empty walls and screams it to the rafters, if only to remind himself that he still knows the words.)

(“C’mon, Moony, it’ll be fun!” he says, and for a moment, Remus Lupin is standing in the room with him—because what else would he imagine but the best friends he’s ever had in his life? “James and I will just—“)

It’s been five months in this new world but he has accomplished nothing— _ nothing _ —and even as the shredded remnants of the Sirius Black that once was scream for excitement, scream for adventure and action and  _ something _ —the hollow, empty Sirius Black that’s left cannot muster the energy to care.

(“Sirius.” And oh  _ Merlin _ it’s JamesHarry standing before him now, a furrow between his hazelgreen eyes and a stern frown on his face. “What the hell d’you think you’re doing? This isn’t you—go out, you’re  _ free _ now! Do something about it!”)

But he blocks out his friendgodson’s words and pulls at his hair with stick-thin fingers and screams and screams and screams, and he doesn’t spare a thought for the fact that even though the others are out they should be back any moment, and he doesn’t care and he can’t  _ he can’t _ —

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Soon after this, Ed stalks up to him with a severe frown on his face, fists clenched (his right’s gained more muscle tone in three months than Sirius’ have gained in three years), glaring imperiously up at him.

“We’re going to Central,” he says abruptly, because like Sirius, the boy has never been one for smalltalk. “Al wants to see the Hugheses, and Mustang needs me to sign some paperwork to quit the military officially.”

“All right,” Sirius says, unsure of where he’s going with this. After all—

“—And you’re coming with us. The train leaves tomorrow morning at eight—we’ll be leaving the house at seven, so you’d damn well better be ready.”

And before Sirius can process this declaration, before he can even begin to formulate a reply, Ed has turned around and walked away, his fists still clenched and back rigid.

He thinks on this, the rest of the afternoon; they surely want him to snap out of—whatever this is—are hoping that seeing Mustang and Jean and the others will help.

It will, maybe. More likely, it won’t—because while they’re good people and Sirius can see that, they’re not James and they’re not Remus and they’re not  _ home _ —

But he gets out of bed early the next morning (he hardly slept an hour, and he knows it shows when Al sends him a sharp, worried look over a breakfast he scarcely touches), and packs some meager clothes into a borrowed suitcase, and follows the boys to the train station without a single complaint.

(None of them say a word if they notice him taking his three precious, worn photographs from the wall, leaving the few they’ve taken of him in Amestris behind.)

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Central is just as he remembers it—so painfully similar to London, but at the same time so startlingly different that he feels sick to his stomach. After all, even though the streets often look similar to those from his home, everything is just fundamentally  _ different, _ and he feels as if he’s forgotten how much he hates being here.

(Why did he ever agree to come?)

Gracia Hughes picks them up from the train station, and the worry on her face is clear as she looks Sirius up and down, taking in his gaunt features and his slumped back and his dead eyes. But she says nothing—whether to honor his privacy or to keep her young daughter in the dark, Sirius cannot tell—and leads the three of them to a cab, heading toward her home in the heart of the city.

He does his best not to look out the windows as the streets speed by (too fast but not fast enough—he hates cars but misses broomsticks and Floo and Apparition, how is he supposed to get around, now, because he has no idea how to drive and no energy to walk and no will to do  _ anything _ —), and soon enough, they arrive at the flat the Hugheses call home.

They’re still living, functioning beings—Gracia and Elysia both, even when they’ve lost their husband and their father and the most important man in their entire lives. Sirius, too, has lost his center—James, who looks so achingly similar to the Maes displayed so proudly on the wall—but he has nearly ceased to function, can no longer do such basic tasks as  _ caring  _ and  _ living _ like so many others have in the wake of tragedy.

He’s weak, that’s what he is—weak and useless, now that he’s a Muggle with a stick that means nothing to everyone in this world, with three scarce photographs to remind him of the life he once led—

He’s  _ weak, _ but he has not the energy to pull himself from the depths, and not the voice to scream out for help, and not the will to tread water for much longer before he allows the emptiness to consume him.

(Merlin, what would James say if he saw him now?)

(Why can’t he muster the energy to  _ care? _ )

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Elysia is watching him warily all that night, as his hand is constantly in his pocket (handling the wand he’s brought along, brushing gentle fingers across the faces in the pictures that he’s long since memorized but nearly forgotten), and there’s a small (adorable) furrow in her brow when she detaches herself from her mother’s arm that evening, trotting over to Sirius’ chair by the fire and putting tiny hands on tiny hips.

(Is this what Harry would have looked like at four years old, were he brought up in a caring, loving home?)

“Mister Sirius,” she demands in a surprisingly imperious voice, despite her mother’s quiet admonition not to bother him. (He can’t decide whether to be grateful for her discretion, or angry that she’s treating him like so many shards of glass.) “You need to smile!”

This seems like such an easy demand—something he would have done readily in his teens—but now, curling up the corners of his mouth seems an impossible task, and he only blinks at her a few times before saying simply, “Why?”

He sees Al flinch from the couch beside him, sees Gracia’s brows rise quickly on her forehead, but Sirius only has eyes for the little girl who scarcely reaches his hip, whose frown only deepens as he stares back at her. “Because Uncle Ed and Uncle Al are your friends! And Uncle Roy and Mama and me! And ‘cause we’re friends, you can’t be sad!”

“Elysia,” Gracia says, louder this time, sending what might be an apologetic glance toward Sirius, but he shrugs it off (he’s always loved kids—Nymphadora used to tug at his hair when he stopped cutting it, when she was not yet a year old, before Andromeda took her into hiding—when he was still able to laugh about it all) and attempts what likely comes out as a grimace toward the little girl.

“I can try,” he says, though he has no intention of doing so, if only to assuage her worry, and when she does not look convinced, he does his best to turn his mouth up into a more true smile.

She frowns even more deeply at him, and then, unexpectedly, jumps into his lap and throws her arms around his neck in a hug.

He returns it gingerly—what else is he to do, after all?—but the small warm body in his arms feels strangely cold to him, and he is almost relieved when she releases him, peers up at him critically for a few seconds more, and eventually turns away.

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That’s one of the things he misses the most, he thinks, about his life in England: the hugs.

It’s a silly thing, really (after all, he spent twelve years in Azkaban, without a sympathetic soul to even consider touching him in any capacity), but after relearning casual touches and warm embraces from Remus and Harry—and yes, even Molly, for her mothering instinct was all-encompassing and her doubt of his parenting abilities did not overshadow her worry for his well-being—he could not seem to get enough of them. He hugged people whenever possible, whenever he had the slightest opportunity…

But here, in Amestris, it seems wrong to ask it of them.

He knows that Ed and Al would give him one gladly, should he ask—even Winry, he suspects, and Gracia, would embrace him without a second thought, because he’s sure it’s obvious that he needs one. But he doesn’t  _ know _ them—not well enough, anyway—and it’s an odd thing to ask of them anyway, and he suspects that they’ll feel just as hollow as Elysia’s did, when her chubby arms wrapped tightly around his neck for those few uncomfortable seconds.

He so desperately wants someone to embrace him, but those  _ someones  _ are long gone, and so he knows he must carry on without it.

He’s at the Hugheses’ flat with just Gracia for the day—Ed and Al are visiting the military base, and Elysia is at a friend’s, and though the Elrics offered to bring him along, he declined. He doesn’t think he could stand having to face all those people who—for some reason—seem to care about his well-being, even when he scarcely knew them for three weeks, even when they honestly  _ should not give a damn. _

No, he decides, it’s better to stay secluded in this flat with Gracia, who is discreet enough not to pry, kind enough to offer what comfort she can, and quiet enough not to inadvertently intrude on his thoughts.

It’s nearing lunchtime, and Gracia is considering him from across the living room. He’s picked up a book on introductory alchemy that the Elrics brought along (the reason is a mystery to him—but he thinks that there was probably a reason it was left conspicuously on the coffee table when they left) and is leafing through it, barely absorbing any of the words though he knows he should recognize most of them by now.

“Would you like to cook?” Gracia’s soft voice echoes across the room, and he looks up, rather startled. He’s never been much of a cook himself—when he lived with Remus to cut down on rent, during the first war, his friend always insisted on cooking  _ so you don’t burn the whole goddamned building down, Padfoot. _ And, of course, when he was younger, they had house elves who took care of the cooking, and since Azkaban…

Well, he ate whatever anyone else brought along to Headquarters. Cooking for himself had never even crossed his mind.

But memories of meals he hasn’t had since he arrived in Amestris—meals they don’t seem to have here at all—waft through his mind, and he finds himself nodding, searching through his vague memories for the recipes that Remus and Lily often cooked, when the rest of them couldn’t be bothered to find anything besides leftovers or take-out. They’re recipes he has fond memories of—the six of them sitting around the Potters’ enlarged dining room table, baby Harry flinging peas at his father’s face and laughing hysterically, the rest of them, for the moment, forgetting the war raging just outside…

Not happy times, perhaps, but certainly happier times than he’s living now.

Bangers and mash. That can’t be too hard, right? Lily was always able to cook that in an hour or so, he remembers, and so he decides he could probably manage it.

He asks Gracia for potatoes and sausages and everything else he can remember his friends cooking with, and she watches rather bemusedly as he awkwardly boils the potatoes on the unfamiliar stove, as he cooks the sausage in the strange, Muggle oven.

But despite his best efforts, despite every  _ English _ swear that crosses his lips as he tries  _ so damned hard _ to make this work—the sausages burn, and the gravy is all wrong, and he cannot remember what to add into the potatoes to make them the right consistency, and eventually, he bites back a sob and turns to flee the kitchen, leaving a boiling pot and charred meat and a bewildered Gracia behind. He locks himself in his room and does not emerge until the Elrics return and Ed threatens to break down the door.

That night, Gracia prepares sausages and mashed potatoes and gravy for dinner, but it isn’t bangers and mash, and it isn’t  _ Lily’s, _ and he vows never to try and cook food from his homeland ever again.

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.

He almost feels bad that he’s actively been avoiding leaving the flat—that he’s been avoiding Jean and the others like the plague—but he just doesn’t think he could handle so many people right now.

Elysia seems to have understood some unsaid signal that he doesn’t wish to play, because she always asks Ed, or Al, or her mother, when the boys are out around Central. He’s grateful for it, but at the same time, he feels her eyes following him often, feels the weight of Gracia’s concern upon his shoulders.

As kind as they all are, he is infinitely grateful when the three of them board a train back to Resembool.

Ed’s all but glaring at the back of his head, and Al says little once they’ve said their good-byes to the Hugheses. (The military men were unable to come say goodbye—too caught up in work to leave—and Sirius is intensely relieved by this while the Elrics seem disappointed.) They ride the train in silence for several hours—in fact, Sirius nearly thinks both of them asleep—until Ed abruptly turns and punches him in the shoulder,  _ hard, _ a stony expression on his face.

“Damnit, Sirius, what do you  _ want? _ ”

It’s such a broad question—he wants to answer him—he  _ does, _ because he knows Ed, and Ed would do anything in his power to help him toward his goal…would drop everything, drop this peaceful life he’s earned for himself and his brother, if only it could make Sirius smile again. (He can’t ask him to do that…not after everything.)

He knows Ed wants to help, but what he wants is impossible and far out of reach, and his second choice isn’t even worth voicing aloud.

So he only shrugs, meeting the boy’s eyes briefly before turning to stare out the window…no energy or will to continue the conversation. But Ed—damn it all—he grabs him by the shoulder, his grip strong as steel though his arm no longer is, and forces him to turn around.

There’s a near-murderous glare on his face, and the two of them are nearly eye-to-eye, sitting down on this awful train seat. “ _ Pick yourself up,” _ Ed nearly roars, causing the few other occupants of the train car to jump and turn toward them. “You’ve got two healthy legs, there—now stand up and use them! You’ve got a new life here, so  _ do something about it!” _

He suddenly sees James in the admonition, and Lily in the worry clear in his eyes, and Remus in the sense behind the words—and just as quickly as he registers their meaning he is slipping away, into himself, because maybe if he tries hard enough he’ll be able to conjure up Lily’s laugh, and James’ smile, and Remus’ voice as they all sit around a fire in the Gryffindor common room, not a care in the world—

(It’s not healthy it’s not good it’s not  _ sane _ but who needs sanity anymore, when there’s no one left to stave off the madness?)

Ed shakes him once, harshly, and slaps him across the face, bringing him abruptly back to reality with a scowl. “Damnit, we just want to help _ , _ ” Ed almost hisses at him, shaking him again (apparently for good measure) and waits for Sirius’ eyes to meet his before continuing, “You name it, and we’ll help you do it. All you have to do is  _ ask. _ ”

Sirius does not reply to this—doesn’t think he could conjure up the correct words in either language to express exactly what he’s thinking, but nods shortly (with no intention of taking him up on the offer) and turning again toward the window.

He can’t ask them, because what he needs is his family back…

And if he can’t have that, then he’d rather be dead.

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.

One day, Sirius finds himself wandering down to the Resembool cemetery.

He doesn’t know why—after all, he’s never cared much for cemeteries (never cared much for someone who’s died, at least to attend their funeral— _ forget that you weren’t able to go to James and Lily’s, and that killed you more than any curse ever could).  _ They’re eerie and  _ wrong, _ he feels, because the dead are gone, their souls either long departed or tied to some other place in this world. Ghosts have been commonplace in his life for as long as he can remember ( _ in England _ ), and after all, his Animagus form is ( _ was _ ) the Grim in everything but action.

Gods, sometimes he wonders why he wasn’t the first to die.

(More often than not, he wishes he was.)

But nonetheless, he finds his way to the graveyard one cold day in winter; there’s a shallow layer of snow on the ground that will be slush and then water by the morning, and he sludges on the dirt road in borrowed ( _ not  _ charity) boots to the small area near the outskirts of town.

(He never did visit the Godric’s Hollow graveyard. Remus offered to go with him a few times, when they briefly entertained the idea of sneaking him out of the house as a dog, but he doesn’t think he would have been able to handle it.)

(After all, if he doesn’t see the tombstones, he can pretend that his friends are still alive, and just perhaps far away for now.)

He wanders the rows of graves listlessly, some faded nearly beyond recognition but others quite new. Some are well-kept and others are left to the wilds of the countryside…and he finds himself cleaning those off, almost absent-mindedly, wiping snow from the tops and the faces of the stones, peeling away wayward vines from the tombstones.

(Remus has to be doing this for James and Lily’s. Right?)

By chance, walking past one row and vaguely admiring two stones, side by side, which have been recently cleared of snow and have beautiful holly wreaths leaning against them. When he leans down to read the names engraved on the tombs, however, he realizes who must have left them there—for these mark the resting place of Trisha Elric and Van Hohenheim.

It hits him like a hammer to the gut, because he’s known that the Elrics are orphaned now, knows that they grew up without either of their parents, knows how much they miss both of them every single day.

(But see, how they can continue living and caring and being  _ happy? _ Why can he not do that too?)

Van Hohenheim’s is newer—less than a year old, he’d estimate, though there are no dates on the stone. Trisha—he realizes—was scarcely older than Lily when she passed…only a few years older than his friend when they both left their precious little boys behind.

He finds that he has absolutely nothing to say.

Because mustn’t they have been incredible people, to have raised such strong sons? Mustn’t they have been amazing, just as James and Lily were, to be so loved even years after they are gone?

He blinks several times in rapid succession, suddenly sees the names  _ Lily  _ and  _ James _ instead of  _ Trisha  _ and  _ Van _ (tells himself he doesn’t feel guilty for it) and reaches down gently to wipe a few errant snowflakes from the tombs with thin, trembling fingers.

“They’re heroes,” he blurts suddenly into the cold air, his breath fogging in front of him at the sudden outburst. “You should be proud.”

And he turns on his heel, rubs his face (from the cold, he swears it) and heads toward the house without looking back.

(They’re heroes, just like the Potters, just like he never was.)

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That night, he wonders whether anyone cared enough to give him any sort of tomb at all.

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.

Ed is at the end of his rope.

Winry and Granny haven’t said anything to him—or to Al, for the two of them often stay up late into the night talking—but he can tell they’re worried, can tell that they are honestly at a loss as to what to do.

Sirius is fading. Ed’s tried everything he can think of—the man has been here more than half a year, now, but he hasn’t really  _ been _ here—he’s going through the motions, eating and walking and talking (though Ed is sure his Amestrian would be so much better if he just  _ tried _ ) and sleeping—only occasionally, if the perpetual dark circles under his eyes and the listlessness and the lack of concentration are anything to go by.

He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t  _ know, _ and it’s driving him absolutely mad.

Winry has tried again and again to engage him in conversations about automail, but those don’t last longer than a few minutes—though it’s clear that Sirius is trying, at least to some extent, if only to spare her feelings, it’s clear that his heart isn’t in it. Ed even offers, once, to try and find him some spare parts to see if he wants to try and build a motorbike like he had in England—and though that’s perhaps the most animated he’s been since that battle in the Department of Mysteries, he quickly casts it aside: “I don’t know how to build one from scratch. Messing with an existing one, sure, but not from the ground up.”

(He’s speaking in English more and more now, sometimes even to Winry and Granny…only realizing his mistake when they stare at him blankly and ask him to repeat himself. Every time, he starts, as if he hasn’t realized what he’s done.)

(Sometimes, Ed wonders whether he’s speaking to them or to people who are long gone.)

Normally, he’d yell and scream and rage, pull him up and support his weight himself if he thought it would do anything. He’d put on however much he needed to in order to help Sirius survive this ordeal—he’d drop everything,  _ do anything,  _ if he thought it would help him at all.

But he knows exactly what Sirius wants—he wants the people in his old, faded photographs, and he wants the comfort of familiarity, and he wants people who have spoken his native tongue all their lives. He wants  _ home. _

And the wanting is swallowing him whole, right before their eyes—it’s eating him up, tearing him apart just as if he had sacrificed his whole life at the Gate instead of just his magic. He can’t handle the grief and the longing and the guilt (for more than once, Sirius has referred to James’ death as his fault, and though Ed knows the truth the certainty in the man’s voice twists in his gut like a knife), and such things will ultimately destroy him.

He wants to scream, to throw his arms to the heavens and beg that  _ god _ for some measure of mercy for this poor man, but he knows he will receive nothing. He, after all, is nothing but an awful sinner who flew too close to the sun, and the scars of his arrogance still paint his body and his soul like a firestorm.

And though Sirius’ scars are not physical, they run perhaps even deeper, and they all know there will be no salvation brought forth for him.

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.

Sirius knows there’s been something  _ off, _ these last couple of weeks.

Spring is nearly upon them, though he scarcely noticed the passing of the winter months; he knows he should be doing  _ something, _ besides sitting and staring at nothing for much of the day in his tiny bedroom of the Rockbells’ house, but he honestly can’t muster the energy to  _ care _ . (It’s charity and he hates it but what else is he to do, when he scarcely knows the language or the people or the culture or  _ anything at all?)  _ He’s seen the rage on Ed’s face, lately, the guilt on Al’s—knows it’s not so much directed at him as at the boys themselves—and though he knows he really should feel guilt over that and try to comfort them, assure them none of this is their fault…

It wouldn’t do any good, anyway, and it’s more energy than he thinks he can exert right now.

He’s been listless ever since he arrived but now, somehow, it has gotten impossibly worse; most days, he can barely drag himself out of bed, only sometimes bothers to change out of his pajamas before he goes downstairs for breakfast (lunch) (dinner) (when he cares enough to eat at all).

He knows all four worry over him, that the Elrics whisper about him late into the night (because, after all, these walls are not so thick as to block out all noise). He knows he’s being irrational, that he shouldn’t just  _ give up, _ because that’s not what Gryffindors do and he’s been defined by his House since he was Sorted at eleven so he can’t just give up on that now, right?

So why is it so fucking  _ hard? _

He doesn’t care.  _ He doesn’t care. _ He doesn’t care about a goddamned thing, doesn’t care that the clothes strewn across his floor will never get picked up or that the automail he would have been so interested in learning about only a year ago is mind-numbing or that the people who are so  _ so  _ kind to him, take care of him when he is unable to do it himself, are worrying themselves sick over his well-being.

He. Doesn’t. Care. Why should he?

(James is dead James is dead JamesisdeadbutsoisSirius)

He doesn’t fit, here, and it’s not just the language barrier and the culture shock and the sharp pain where his magic and his family used to be. This…place, this country, these people, this  _ universe, _ they don’t fit with him—it’s all wrong—he feels stretched and warped and distorted, like he’s come out on the wrong end of some wretched curse ( _ you’ll never cast one again _ ), and he’s felt it since he arrived here but it’s only grown stronger.

His eyes don’t fit in his head and his bones don’t fit under his skin and his heart is pounding too fast too fast  _ too fast _ he can’t do this he can’t he can’t this isn’t right this world isn’t right he can’t

Amestris is wrong and England is right and  _ he  _ is  _ England  _ but England isn’t here, England is far away and he’ll never return, not ever, he can’t it’s impossible it’s gone now and only he remains, in this distorted world where everyone is right but everyone is wrong and the people are so kind but so  _ strange  _ and nobody is James and nobody is Remus or Lily or Harry or even  _ Peter  _ for Merlin’s sake, Sirius would take  _ Wormtail’s  _ company over any of these Amestrians’ right now, because they’re all wrong and it’s like they’re all part of a puzzle and he’s a piece that doesn’t quite fit, but maybe if he could find a way to—

It’s the darkest part of the night, he can’t see a goddamned thing but he fumbles toward the nightstand blindly, yanking open the drawer and feeling around until he finds his photographs (they never went back onto the wall after the trip to Central, and nobody questioned him about it) and his wand and he grasps them all, pulls them tight to his chest, and he flips the photographs over so he can run his fingers along the faces he hasn’t seen in  _ so damn long, _ the Potters and the Marauders and the new Order of the Phoenix, the family that was and could have been but—

His wand is moving in familiar patterns though he knows it will do less than nothing, but he can’t help it, he doesn’t have a lamp and the curtains are drawn but he needs to see their faces, he needs it needs it more than air, more than anything else in the universe—

He waves his wand and whispers  _ lumos, _ and the room erupts in bright light.

.

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Sirius smiles.

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Something seems off, the next morning, when they all come downstairs for breakfast.

Well,  _ all _ isn’t the correct term, but Sirius has come downstairs so rarely recently that Ed’s come to take the small victories when he can. These, of course, involve forcing Sirius to leave his bedroom, getting him dressed (he refuses to wear his robes, though Ed swears up and down to him that the Rockbells won’t mind, won’t even question it, and it’s clear he’s more comfortable in it than slacks and shirt) and feeding him at least one meal a day.

If he eats at least half the plate, that’s another.

But the four of them sitting down to breakfast together is no strange thing, so Ed brushes off the feeling of  _ wrongness  _ as they all dig into the delicious meal Winry and Al made that morning. But his brother seems twitchy as well, and he shares a glance with Ed that tells him they both know something isn’t right, here.

So after breakfast Ed stretches and says in as nonchalant a tone as he can manage (which isn’t one at all, if Granny’s sharp look is anything to go by) that he’s going upstairs to wash up. A twitch of a hand in Al’s direction is all it takes for his brother to follow suit.

Neither of them turn toward the washroom, instead walking straight past it and going up to Sirius’ small room. It used to be a storage room, rarely used, but serves well enough as a bedroom now that there is someone to fill it.

(Is? Was?  _ Is Sirius all right? _ )

When he knocks on the door—gently, and then more insistently when there is no answer—his mind spins through all the possibilities. Sirius may not have magic anymore, but if he wished to do himself serious harm, he would be able to find a way. He’s an intelligent man, after all, and—

Eventually, Al makes a soft, worried noise behind him, and Ed decides it can’t hurt anything if they barge in without their friend’s permission.

The room, by all accounts, seems normal. Sirius’ new clothes are strewn about haphazardly—his robes, as always, are the only things that have been hung carefully in the closet. Sirius is lying on the bed, apparently asleep, but the side table drawer is hanging precariously ajar, and three photographs and a wand are in the man’s hands.

The wand’s tip is faintly glowing.

Ed feels Al tense beside him even as he feels his legs sliding into a defensive stance, glancing once toward the wand—an indistinct color—not green, but not red or blue or purple either—and he says, very quietly, “Get Winry and Granny out of the house.”

He doesn’t know what’s going on, here—that wand should be nothing more than a stick now, covered with curious runes. Sirius’ magic has been sapped out of him to bring them home (and oh, how Ed regrets not coming up with a better plan, every time he sees the permanently disconsolate look on Sirius’ face!), and there is no one in this world who can—

Al slips out of the room almost silently on bare feet, though not before sending a sharp glance toward his brother. Ed’s hands are poised to clap at a moment’s notice as he creeps toward the bed, ready for whatever this could possibly be, ready for—

But when he gets close enough to see Sirius’ face properly, his hands drop abruptly to his sides, and then rise to thread through his loose hair, his eyes widening and his jaw clenching.

The man’s eyes are glazed and half-open, locked on the picture of him and his friends at Hogwarts, and he wears a wide, true smile—the likes of which Ed has never seen, whether in England or Amestris.

There is a commotion behind him before three bodies tumble into the room, and Al looks murderous as he follows behind Winry and Granny. Neither of them seem to care about the glowing wand at all as they hurry forward to check on Sirius—though Granny sends it a sharp glance, she ignores it for now—but once they get to Ed’s vantage point, they also stop dead in their tracks. Al lets out a low moan, reaching out for his brother’s arm for support as his knees threaten to buckle beneath him. Winry gasps, her hands going to cover her mouth as she takes a step back, and Granny sighs deeply, closing her eyes. 

(Sirius Black is dead.)

(But should they really be surprised?)


	6. Epilogue

None of them are quite sure what to do, now.

There must be a tombstone, of course, and a funeral, even though Sirius wouldn’t have appreciated it and it’s not where he truly belongs, anyway. But,  _ damnit, _ the stubborn old man had come to mean a great deal to all of them—him, and Al, and the Rockbells and the Hugheses and everyone else in Central—and no matter how much he hated this universe, no one in this universe ever hated him.

(Ed’s trying—and failing, sometimes—not to blame Sirius. After all, he was strung too thin, knocked down one too many times, and though Ed thinks he would persevere were he in Sirius’ situation, he knows the two of them are very different people.)

But he can’t help, sometimes, being angry at him for giving up.

They make the necessary phone calls, to Gracia and Mustang and set the date for the burial. Ed pays for it out of pocket, buys a headstone to match their parents’, and doesn’t care how much it costs, doesn’t care that he doesn’t have a bottomless bank account anymore.

He isn’t so sure that Sirius ever got a grave in England…and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try to make up for it here.

Granny asks questions—of course she does, because she’s a smart woman and there are so many things that don’t add up about the man that she was far too discreet to ask about while he was alive. But then, when Ed gets off the phone with Gracia (she had sounded upset, but more resigned than tearful, like she had seen this coming just as much as they had), the short woman all but drags him to the living room, sitting him down on the couch beside his brother and pinning them both with a hard stare.

And, just like that, the story of the magical world comes out. Granny’s clearly surprised, but it makes far too much sense to question—the glowing wand, the moving photographs, they’re too strange to be anything from  _ this  _ world. And then she asks, when they’re finished, why he’s never performed magic before now.

“He gave it up,” Ed says, his lips twitching involuntarily down in remembered pain. “To get us home. There was no other way…he gave up a part of himself to make sure we were all right.”

Granny’s face softens, then, and Ed realizes that she never knew Sirius, before. It’s obvious, and surely he realized that there was a stark contrast between the Sirius in England and the Sirius in Amestris—but he was predisposed to respect him, knowing exactly what he’s gone through in life, watching him interact with his patchwork family, seeing the steel in his eyes every time he vowed to protect Harry.

But Granny doesn’t know any of these things—only that he saved her own family, and that he wasted away in her spare room despite their best efforts to save him. Ed realizes this, that she—and everyone else in this world—never knew exactly what kind of strength Sirius possessed, how he drew courage from those he cared for, how he protected them in every way he knew how.

(It kills him that none of them will ever know this…not really.)

But looking at Granny’s face, he thinks she’s beginning to understand, and without dishonoring his friend’s memory by telling his life story to a near-stranger, he thinks this must be enough.

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.

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.

It’s upsetting how easy it is to clean up Sirius’ things and prepare him for the burial.

He died, of course, in borrowed pajamas, and all his outfits but one were mere afterthoughts, pieces of cloth that he hated and only wore out of necessity. These clothes Ed and Winry pack neatly into boxes and send to a charity in East City, where they know some man will be happy to have them. After all, Sirius is—was—taller than Ed, and skinnier than Al, who is quickly filling out the way their mother always said he would. None of these clothes would fit either of them.

Meanwhile, Al and Granny are busy dressing Sirius in his robes for the burial—the first time, as far as Ed can tell, that he’s worn them since he arrived in this world. And when the four of them meet up later, their appointed tasks complete, both of them have haunted faces that tell Ed that it wasn’t just his imagination when he looked at Sirius and saw skin and bones, cheekbones too well defined, bony fingers and black-ringed eyes.

(He spends the evening knowing he could have done  _ more,  _ and the fact that he couldn’t save one of his dearest friends—who has saved his life more than once, never asked for any of this, and only ever chased after those he cared for—is just as awful as the fact that he couldn’t save an innocent little girl.)

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.

Without opening him up—which none of them are willing to do, and anyway, it’s not at all necessary—Granny can’t say for sure what killed Sirius that night.

She thinks maybe his heart, warped by constant stress and grief and longing, simply failed. Or perhaps—more fanciful, but Ed has lived in a world of magic and knows stranger things have happened—his body and soul rejected this universe in a way the Elrics’ never did in England, his mind unable to cope with such things—and this polarity transferred to his soul, which simply decided to leave the strangeness behind.

While this is not impossible, neither of the Elrics know enough about the intricacies of the soul (even after all this time), and neither of them know whether Sirius—robbed of his magic—could have been shattered so much by this that his soul simply let go.

(The idea has been terrifying for years—when Ed was younger, he had nightmares that he would wake up one morning and Al would just be  _ gone.  _ Now that it might have happened—to someone who was never soul bound at all—it’s just as crushing as his subconscious envisioned.)

It drives Ed mad that it’s possible, that there was no way to save Sirius before he died—because while he knows all too well that the dead are gone, Sirius’ soul was still anchored to this world and they could have—they could have—

He does not cry, that night, but he wishes he did. The tears are in his mind and his heart and his lungs but they do not surface, because he knows this is what Sirius wanted anyway—saw it in his eyes on that train ride home from Central, saw it every day when Ed asked him to assist him in some menial task just to engage him in  _ something _ —

This is what Sirius wanted—to be free from this world of strangers, but  _ damnit, _ if he hadn’t been so selfish and remembered that there are people who care about him too, maybe it wouldn’t have come to this.

( _ Selfish _ is an awful term, but he is angry and he is grieving and maybe he’s being selfish himself too, just for a moment, because Sirius has come to mean so much to him after all this time together and  _ why couldn’t he see that?) _

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.

.

The service is, of course, small and private—there are scarcely a dozen people there, because Sirius hadn’t been here long enough to make any more lasting connections even if he had tried. But Mustang and his entire team take a few days off work and take the train down with the Hugheses, and the four of them are of course there; the minister comes to officiate, even though Ed knows Sirius has never been even remotely religious. Neither have any of them, to tell the truth, but it’s custom in Resembool for him to send off the dead, and the man knows this and keeps the service relatively secular in respect.

The tombstone is simple; Ed knows that Sirius would never have wanted something grandiose. They bury him near their parents, because Ed is fairly certain his mother would have loved him (tried—and probably done better than they did—to bring him back to himself, even if it was only ever temporary) and it’s the closest thing he has to family in this world, anyway, even if it’s not really close at all.

Gracia cries, and even Havoc’s and Mustang’s eyes are suspiciously bright. Elysia stares at the coffin as it’s lowered into the ground with wide eyes, though she says nothing; she likely remembers her own father’s funeral, remembers that screaming did less than nothing to bring him back, though there are tears welling in her eyes as well. The rest of them—Ed refuses to cry, just like he has all these long years, though Al’s shoulders are shaking as Ed wraps an arm around them in comfort. They should say something, he thinks suddenly—the minister’s speech is short (after all, he never met the man), and none of the people here, truly, knew what a good person Sirius was.

Even if he succumbed to grief when Ed would have persevered—even if he gave up when there was so much left fighting for—Ed knows that one too many hits can break a man, and with nothing left before him but a foreign country and a foreign culture and a foreign  _ life… _

He knows why Sirius did not last as he did in Azkaban, because here, there is not even the remotest possibility of redemption, of seeing his friends again.

But he finds himself without words—he can think of absolutely nothing to say, to tell all these people exactly what kind of goodness Sirius held in his heart. So he stays silent, and the rest of them say nothing as well; eventually the service is over, and Ed feels a gaping emptiness in his heart as the rest of them disperse, back to the Rockbells’ for the night before they return to their duties and their lives in the morning.

Though they have all left the cemetery behind, Ed stands there for several minutes longer before wiping his eyes, stepping carefully around the fresh mound of soil before whacking the headstone lightly with his right hand.

“You stupid bastard,” he says, and his voice chokes as he rubs a sleeve across his eyes again. “I hope you know we’re gonna miss you like hell.”

And then he turns and walks away, shoving fisted hands into his pockets and pulling his shoulders up to his ears, allowing a few tears to trail down his cheeks in his solitude before he joins the others.

.

.

.

.

Sirius is buried with the only things that ever mattered to him in this world—his photographs, and his wand, and the robes that make him look more at home than his borrowed clothes ever did.

Ed can only hope that, wherever he is, he’s found his happiness and his life once again.

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.

The last thing he sees is the smiling faces of his brothers before the world goes dark, and then explodes in blinding light.

Then he is lying on a soft surface, broken in and sagging and entirely too comfortable for how old and decrepit it is. He reaches up and rubs his closed eyes groggily, feeling the pounding of a hangover along his temples and behind his eyes and  _ Merlin _ how much Firewhiskey did they have last night—

But he realizes exactly what he’s thinking—realizes that he hasn’t had Firewhiskey in months and months (not since he’s been  _ home _ ) and this couch he’s lying on feels eerily similar to—

His eyes snap open in disbelief, take in the grey upholstery that Lily always hated and swore she’d change one day, and nearly passes out again at the sight of the living room he hasn’t seen in more than fifteen years.

Everything—it’s exactly as it always was, the haphazard copies of Transfiguration Today scattered across the coffee table, brightly colored toys strewn across the floor, the slightly askew picture by the narrow stairwell that everyone  _ always  _ knocked into while going upstairs—

This— _ this is Godric’s Hollow, _ and he wonders suddenly whether he’s finally snapped, whether he’s drooling all over the Rockbell’s spare room right now and this is all in his head, or—

There’s a flush from the washroom nearby, and Sirius jumps, his brain still trying to catch up to what is happening around him. But he’s not given any time—the sink runs for a scarce few moments, and then the door is opening, and  _ Merlin James is standing there,  _ a sheepish grin on his face as he heads straight for the stairwell, not even glancing toward the couch as he calls up the stairs—

“Oi, Lily, might not want to use the loo for a bit, sorry in advance—“

His voice is just the same— _ exactly  _ the same as it was fifteen years ago, and even as Lily (Sirius feels lightheaded at the thought) heaves an exaggerated sigh from upstairs, Sirius feels a strangled sound leave his throat. James spins around, his hand going for his wand quickly and his eyes wide, but he freezes as he locks eyes with Sirius.

The two of them stare at each other for a few long moments, but then Sirius is on his feet, vaulting over the coffee table and moving to stand close to James. He can feel his breath as it hits his skin, hears his own labored breathing as he tries to take in the sight. This—this is James—this isn’t Harry, no matter how similar the two of them look—his eyes are dark rather than green, and his nose is different, and—

He reaches out a trembling hand to touch him, half-afraid he’ll disappear in a wisp of smoke like so many other dreams have. But his hand meets solid flesh, a bony shoulder beneath thin summer robes, and Sirius lets out a sob before throwing his arms around James, crushing the air out of him—

But that doesn’t matter, because in the same instant James is embracing him as well, and this is a hug like he has not had in years—this is comfort and warmth and  _ home  _ wrapped up in one man’s arms, and Sirius feels himself relax like he hasn’t in more than a decade as James’ arms tremble around his shoulders. 

“You’re real,” he mumbles after a very long time, muffled and barely audible, but James has always understood him and only lets out a sob in reply, gripping him tighter.

“Am I…am I dead?” 

This is the only logical explanation he can come up with, and it doesn’t upset him as much as it probably should. After all, if death brings him away from Amestris and back to his family…this is all he’s ever wanted, right? Since he was twenty-two years old and standing in the rubble of this ruined house, all he’s ever wanted was to see his brother alive again.

(Maybe, later, he’ll feel guilty for leaving the Elrics behind. But now, they don’t even cross his mind—he’s so wrapped up in James’ arms around him, James’ breath against his ear, James’ presence before him at all and he knows he’s not quite processing this, it hasn’t sunk in yet because he hasn’t seen him in  _ so goddamn long  _ and now—)

“I suppose so,” James says with that not-quite-laugh he always did ( _ does _ ), his fingers curling slightly into the back of Sirius’ robes to grip him tighter. “I’d say sorry, but—“

Sirius cuts him off by tightening his grip, stealing his breath, and mumbles something incoherent that hopefully gets the point across—he’s not sorry to be dead at all, if being dead brings him here. And they lapse into silence again, standing there by the stairs of the little house Sirius was sure he’d never set foot in again, simply reveling in the fact that they are reunited once more.

He realizes, suddenly, that there are tears streaming down his cheeks, and he’d be embarrassed if this were anyone but James—but, after all, they’ve seen each other through their lowest points, through grief and anger and everything in between, and his brother has dealt with much worse than tears from him. So he does not wipe them away, only mutters in a choked voice, “I’m so sorry…”

James stiffens at that, his hands sliding from Sirius’ back to his shoulders so he can push him away slightly see his face. “What on earth are you sorry for?” he demands, his own voice rough with unshed tears. “I should be the one apologizing, for sending you through all that hell—“

Sirius barely even registers that James knows what has happened—perhaps that’s just a perk of the afterlife, he supposes vaguely—but responds, his face contorting further, “If I hadn’t suggested we use Peter—and I—I couldn’t protect Harry like I promised I would, I  _ swore _ I’d protect him with my life and—“

“Shush,” James cuts him off, pulling him close again with trembling arms. “You did the best you could—you did more than anyone could have ever expected of you, even after everything—even when you were gone—“

“ _ I gave up!” _ Admitting it sends shards of guilt piercing through his heart, because he’s never said it aloud though the looks he received from the Elrics told him as much anyway. “I couldn’t handle it even though Ed and Al did, I didn’t even try—I  _ wanted  _ to die—“

“And I don’t blame you for that one bit,” James says, his voice turning a bit hard as his grip spasms, holding Sirius even tighter. “You got pushed too far, farther than anyone else I’ve ever known, and don’t you think for one second that makes you weak.”

The words he’s wanted to hear—the rational voice of his best friend who has always,  _ always _ talked him out of bouts of rage and near-madness—it’s what he’s needed to hear all these long months in solitude, and he sags against James’ grip as the tears begin falling faster. “I missed you,” he rasps into his shoulder, because he has no idea what else he can possibly say in this situation. There’s nothing else  _ to  _ say, and James recognizes it too, for he only responds with the same, his voice thick with pent-up emotion as he attempts to hold himself together.

There’s no way of knowing how much time passes before they eventually let go of each other, though Sirius’ hand lingers on James’ shoulder, afraid that if they lose that contact, he will disappear again. But James takes a step away, toward the kitchen, and when Sirius’ hand falls he is just as real as before.

He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so content.

“Lily, we’ve got a visitor!” James hollers as an afterthought, an enormous grin on his face as he steps into the kitchen, humming thoughtfully before he pulls out some potatoes and sausages, setting water on the stove to boil. “You’d better get down here!”

There are a few moments before light footsteps descend the staircase, and Lily’s voice echoes down—“Is it Marlene? She said she was thinking of dropping by—“

But then she catches sight of Sirius, grinning at her with watery eyes, and her mouth falls open a bit as she stares at him. She gains her composure quickly, though, her face morphing into a wide smile as she steps forward, engulfing him in a hug as tight as her husband’s.

“It’s so good to see you again, Sirius.”

Sirius can only hum in reply, resting his cheek on the top of her head; he’s overwhelmed by her presence nearly as much as he was by James’. After all, Lily became an integral part of his life, once she married his brother—and the gap she left in his heart when she was killed was nearly as big.

It’s several moments later that James yelps from the stove, and Sirius turns to see him sucking on one of his fingertips, glaring petulantly at the frying pan where sausage is sizzling merrily. Lily rolls her eyes, gives Sirius one last quick hug, and steps toward the stove, turning the dial down and shoving James away with a laugh.

“Still can’t cook?” Sirius finds himself asking, a grin on his face despite himself—it’s so normal, so strangely domestic that he feels silly laughing at the sight. But, after all, he hasn’t had the chance to experience such things in so long, he feels like he might deserve a little bit of happiness, here.

“Not to save his life,” Lily cuts in before James can reply, sticking her tongue out at her husband before pulling out her wand to chop the potatoes. “It’s a nightmare, I swear—can’t leave him alone in here for too long before I start worrying that the house will burn down.”

Sirius laughs, louder this time, and James pouts a moment before turning to Sirius, cocking his head in thought. “Hey, Padfoot, have you got your wand on you? I reckon you’d be able to, now…”

Sirius stops short at the thought, considering James for a moment before simply concentrating on his dog form.

In a blink, he’s a good three feet shorter, everything appears in shades of grey, and he feels his tail wagging of its own accord at the sight.

And then James is laughing, and Lily is laughing, and before Sirius can even consider changing back James has crouched down and hugged him tight, burying his face in his shaggy neck. “Welcome home, Sirius,” James says, very quietly, and Sirius can only agree, leaning into his brother’s embrace and closing his eyes.


End file.
